


Chocolate and Pastry

by agentmoppet, anemonen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Bisexual Harry Potter, Blow Jobs, But poor decision making, Community: harrydracobang, Explicit Consent, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hand Jobs, Harry/Draco Big Bang 2018, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Therapy, Unresolved Sexual Tension, a lot of fucking therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-06-27 17:20:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 50,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15689913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentmoppet/pseuds/agentmoppet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/anemonen/pseuds/anemonen
Summary: When Pansy bets Draco that there is no chance he and Harry could carry out a genuine romantic relationship, he and Harry form a plan. But as their fake relationship progresses, Draco sees a side of Harry he never expected. Harry is struggling with something, pushing it far down inside him where he doesn't have to acknowledge its existence. Draco starts to worry, and then he starts to care, and then... horribly... he starts to fall in love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blithelybonny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/gifts).



> Thank you so much to the mods for organising this fest. I'm SO excited to get reading and see the beautiful art. Thank you, thank you, thank you to anemonen for sharing your beautiful art and skills in collaboration with this fic <3 I could stare at your art forever <333 And finally thank you to musingsofaretiredunicorn and decanthrope for beta and alpha reading, respectively, and to mxlfoydraco for beta reading the therapy parts (well, all of it, but focusing on the therapy!) for any symptom or ethical issues! I appreciate you all so much.
> 
> This fic is also a surprise gift for blithelybonny! This will come out of nowhere for you, I'm sure :P You were my Erised recipient last year, but I know that you had to drop the fest early on. I'd already plotted this and written a little of it, so, since this fic exists because of your wonderful list of likes/wishes/tropes, I felt it had to be gifted to you. I know this is totally unexpected for you, so there is zero pressure to read! Particularly since I let it go somewhere heavier and more emotionally draining than I originally intended when it was a gift for you. But it's here if you ever feel like it! <3
> 
> Essentially, this fic is my love-note to therapy. Hope y'all enjoy!
> 
>  **Artist's notes:** Thank you so much for writing this beautiful fic, agentmoppet!! It was an absolute honour to get to illustrate it. Thank you to the mods for doing such a great job, and a special thanks to gracerene for helping me beta my art! Also huge thanks to saintdrarry for beta help with my portrait of Harry. Hope you'll all enjoy this wonderful fic and my illustrations. I had a lot of fun with it!

Draco looked up at the sound of howling laughter, and after several seconds of unsuccessful focusing, admitted to himself that he was sloshed. He blinked a couple of times, pushed his wine glass away, and propped his cheek onto his fist because it felt like that might make everything stop spinning.

“What are you laughing at?” he asked in as scornful a voice as he could manage.

Pansy, Weasley, and Granger continued to stare down at the newspaper on the table and howl. Weasley actually had tears in his eyes. Fortunately, Potter looked just as confused as Draco felt, so there was that.

“ _What_ are you _laughing_ at _?_ ” He tried again, and this time he managed to catch their attention.

Unfortunately, that only served to make Pansy squeal even louder and lean on Granger’s shoulder for support.

“Can you imagine it?” she gasped, burying her face in Granger’s neck. “The two of them?”

“They’d hex each other within a day!” Weasley cackled.

“A day?” Granger snorted.

She appeared to be the soberest of the lot as she affected an incredulous and vaguely superior expression. It was only somewhat spoiled by the green silken tie knotted around her head. Draco looked down at his shirt; so that’s where that had gone.

“They’d be covered in boils within the hour,” she finished, and then fell sideways off her chair, laughing all the way to the ground.

Potter thumped his fist on the table, and everyone jumped.

“What are you talking about?” He looked around at the lot of them, confused and bleary-eyed.

Draco held up his hands to remind Potter that he, at least, was the picture of innocence. For once, they were in this together.

“Skeeter thinks the two of you are dating!” Weasley finally spat out, shoving the paper across the table to them and then joining Granger on the floor.

Draco couldn’t decide if the move had been intentional or not. Then, he processed what Weasley had said and shuffled awkwardly sideways across the bench seat until he and Potter were pressed together from shoulder to hip, staring down at the offending article in horror.

“Lovelorn gazes?!” Potter spat, gripping the paper so hard it tore a little. “What the hell does she mean _lovelorn gazes?!_ I haven’t been doing any of that!”

Draco smirked. “Are you sure about that, Potter? You always were obsessed with knowing every little thing I was—  _poorly disguised pining?!_ Potter, no matter what she says, I have not been staring at you for six years with poorly disguised bloody pining.”

“Oh?” Potter turned to him and propped his chin on his hands in a gesture that was entirely too sober. “So, has it been longer, then?”

“Stop! You’re killing me!” Pansy wheezed, plopping her head down on the table.

Draco shoved the paper onto the ground beside him and lit it on fire.

“Oi!” Weasley yelped, climbing back onto his seat and sliding closer to Pansy. “Watch it!”

“It’s cobblestone, Weasley,” Draco drawled, though he dutifully put it out with a well-aimed Aguamenti. Moderately-well-aimed. Third time was the charm.

“Anyway,” Harry said. “Why are you lot laughing? It’s not that funny.”

“Oh no, Harry, it is,” Weasley snickered.

“He’s right.” Granger grabbed hold of the table and pulled herself back onto the bench, nodding across the table at the two of them. “Even excluding how viciously you both hate each other, neither of you possess the maturity to carry out a relationship together.”

“We don’t hate each other anymore!” Potter said, pulling a face. “We’re sitting here together right now, aren’t we?”

“Yes, and you complained the entire time you were getting ready,” Granger said, failing to hold back another laugh.

“You what?” Draco drew back indignantly. “I’m off’nd’d! Offended. I’m offended.”

“Draco, why don’t you tell everyone why you picked that tie you were wearing earlier?” Pansy asked, giving Draco a sweet smile.

“Because Potter’s an idiot who still wears Gryffindor colours even though he’s twenty-four years old, and if he’s going to insist on being a twat then I’m going to remind him that Gryffindor isn’t the only house in existence,” Draco answered promptly.

Then he mentally cursed himself, his family, Pansy’s family, and her cat, for good measure.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Perhaps we have some,” he hesitated, “ _bad blood_ between us. Nonetheless, I’m a bloody catch, and Potter would be lucky to have me.”

Potter snorted. “Mate, if you landed me you wouldn’t _dream_ of giving me up.”

“Oh, Merlin, they’re delirious!” Weasley snorted. “Quick, let’s get them home before they try to snog and end up stabbing each other with dessert forks.”

Granger stood up, wobbled a little, and tried to usher Potter out of his seat, but he only crossed his arms over his chest and glared up at her mulishly.

“What do you mean we’re too immature to have a relationship? I’ll have you know I’ve held relationships with very high maintenance people in the past—remember Sarah? Malfoy would be a breeze.”

“Potter, if you are for one second implying that I am difficult to manage, then I’ll thank you to recall just the other week when we evacuated these very premises at what can only be described as emergency level haste, for the express purpose of avoiding your confrontation with a past beau.” Draco sneered.

A panicked expression crossed Potter’s face. “Tim,” he breathed and fell silent.

“Tell you what,” Pansy said, wiping away several tears with a napkin. “If you two ever manage to pull off a relationship, we’ll all have dinner at _Bentley’s_ , that new place in Diagon, and the three of us will pay.”

Weasley’s eyes grew dazed. “Their courses go on for hours.” He shook his head. “ _We’ll_ pay? I can’t afford _Bentley’s_! It’s like a whole month’s salary!”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “As if these two could ever have an honest to Merlin relationship. Even if they try to fake it, they wouldn’t last. And in the bizarre likelihood they do pull it off, I won’t make it an even split, Weasley. I’m not that awful.”

Weasley looked relieved.

They made their way out of the pub, leaning on each other’s shoulders and stumbling to a nearby alley where they could use the Portkeys Granger had brought with her.

The last thing Draco saw before he disappeared back to the comfort of his own flat was Potter’s thoughtful expression. He rather thought it mirrored his own.

*

Draco was working his way through his neglected pile of correspondence, when Potter showed up in his fireplace.

“Christ, Malfoy.” He coughed, stumbling through onto the carpet and rubbing the soot from his eyes. “Don’t you ever clean your Floo?”

“I hardly use my Floo,” Draco said, putting down his quill and Vanishing the specks of ash that fell on the carpet. “Anyone with decorum knows to Apparate to the foyer where the elves can announce them.”

“Wasn’t sure if I was on the wards,” Potter admitted, glancing up at him briefly before turning his attention back to cleaning.

Draco blinked but said nothing. They’d been friends for years now—why would Potter question whether he was welcome in Draco’s house? Although, come to think of it, this was the first time Draco could recall him visiting on his own.

“Well,” he said slowly. “You are. So, next time, you can use the front door like a normal person. Is everything all right?”

There was a frantic edge to the way Potter was moving, like he was pushing his way through mud and kept getting caught. Then, he looked up at Draco, his expression calm and ordered, and the moment passed.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, taking a seat on the arm of the couch and drumming his fingers on his leg.

“Shocking.”

Potter rolled his eyes and continued. “Remember how Ron and Hermione kicked our arse at pool three weeks in a row?”

Draco frowned. “Yes? But I don’t see what billiards have to do with anything.”

“And remember how Pansy keeps borrowing my jumpers at the end of the night and not giving them back?”

At this, Draco huffed a laugh. “I learned how to avoid that one by the age of fourteen. How many of them does she have now?”

“Nine. And remember how the three of them got together and rigged the karaoke machine so that it played nothing but 80s love ballads, just before they blackmailed us into going up on stage?”

Draco grimaced at the memory. That night had been particularly awful. “Yes, yes, Potter, I remember. Are you going to get to the point any time soon, or do I check back in with you in thirty minutes?”

“I think it’s time we got them back.” Potter’s eyes lit up with a fierce determination.

“How do you propose we do that?” Draco asked slowly, wondering if Potter’s thoughts could possibly have taken the same turn that his had been obsessing over ever since the other night.

“Let’s convince them we’re dating. I know we can pull it off.”

Draco’s stomach did a little flip for no reason that he could identify, but outwardly he didn’t move a muscle. After a moment, he asked, “Can we?”

“Of course.” Potter scoffed. “We’re both adults, despite what Hermione suggests. Why on earth couldn’t we? It’s not as though we’d be actually dating.”

“No. We just have to convince the harpy, the strategist, and the inhumanly obsessive intellectual.”

Potter cocked his head, an infuriating smirk appearing on his lips. “If I didn’t know better, Malfoy, I’d say you were scared we were going to lose. What’s it matter? It’s not like it was a bet. If we can’t convince them, we lose nothing. If we can, we get dinner at Bentley’s and the chance to rub it in their faces for months.”

What was there to lose, indeed? Something niggled at Draco, but he didn’t have words for it, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been thinking of attempting something like this too.

“All right.” He propped his chin on his fist and studied Potter carefully. “If we’re going to pull this off, we’re going to need some guidelines.”

Potter grinned. “So, you’re in, then?”

“Not so fast.”

Draco rose to his feet and crossed the room to retrieve a bottle of scotch from the liquor cabinet. He poured two glasses and sent one floating across the room where Potter took it with a nod of thanks.

“What type of arrangement are you considering?” Draco asked, leaning back against the bench. “The beginning of the relationship is going to be the hardest part to pull off, since they’re going to suspect something like this after they all laughed themselves stupid at the prospect the other night. Ideally, we’d have to begin the process of infatuation in front of them, but I don’t know how good an actor you are.”

“Malfoy.” Potter stared at him over the glass. “I’m here because I think I can pretend to be so madly in love with you that even Hermione is fooled. I think I can manage a little swooning.”

Draco’s stomach did that funny thing again, and he covered it by swallowing half his drink in one go. “Right. I guess we’d better start planning, then.”

“Good.” Potter took a sip. “Any ideas?”

The liquor was beginning to warm Draco, and he felt relaxed enough to prop his elbows back on the bench and study Potter—something he didn’t often do. While they might be friends now, it still didn’t take much for them to get into some argument or other, and he’d found the easiest way to avoid it was to keep their interactions light and easy. The gentle lamp light made strange shadows flicker across Potter’s face; it made him look skittish again, just as he had when he’d first stepped through the Floo.

“I have one idea,” Draco said slowly. “And I think we should discuss a time frame as well.”

Potter shrugged and waited for him to go on.

He cleared his throat, trying to work out the best way to begin this. “We need to make them think they have the upper hand,” he said. “No matter how natural we make it, if we act like we’re falling for each other out of nowhere, they’ll suspect we’re up to something. But if we let them think they’ve foiled our attempt at tricking them, but that we accidentally stumbled on something real in the process… well.” He finished his drink and poured another.

“So you want to pretend we’re pretending to fall in love, and then pretend to fall in love along the way,” Potter summarised, smirking a little into his glass.

“That’s a rather inelegant way of putting it.” Draco sighed. “But unless you have any better plans?”

“I like it. You’re right; they’re going to be expecting this. If they think they’ve beaten us to it, they might let their guard down.”

Draco watched him, taking in the tired lines of his face, the strange spark of something unidentifiable in his eyes. He was missing something here, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. There was something in the way Potter was sitting, something brittle in the way his mouth formed the words. Was he always like this, and it was just that Draco was looking at him properly for the first time?

He sent the bottle floating over and forced a smile, despite his reservations.

“Well then,” he lifted his glass in a toast. “Shall we plan how you’re going to fall desperately in love with me?”

Potter laughed and took the bottle, pouring himself a new glass and raising it in the air. “To true love.”

*

Weasley floated the tray of drinks onto the table and slid in next to Pansy with a grin. “It’s nice to be in a magical pub for once.”

Granger rolled her eyes, but it was lost beneath Pansy’s effusive agreement.

“Here, Potter,” Draco said, reaching for the drinks. “I’ll get yours.”

Their fingers brushed deliberately as he passed the glass over, and Draco made a point of lingering before he drew away. He glanced at Potter, fighting back a smirk at the way he flushed and looked away. Surprisingly, it turned out Potter was a good actor after all—at least, when they were trying to be painfully obvious. The true test would come later.

“Did you know, Potter,” Draco said, deliberately lowering his voice in a way that would capture attention. “That your eyes are Slytherin green?”

“Oh _barf_ ,” Pansy’s dry tones interrupted them. “Look at these two! What are you playing at, Draco? I’ve known you since you were small and stupid. I’ve seen you try to trick your poor mother into at least three different kinds of sponsorship schemes; don’t think you can fool me like this.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” Draco turned to her with an affected air of innocence. “Sponsorship schemes? Your overactive imagination is truly rearing its head tonight, darling.”

“Come on,” Weasley said with a snort. “Jig’s up. We saw you whispering in the doorway.”

“That’s right,” Pansy added, smirking at the two of them over the top of her wine glass. “You know, I was only joking when I made that bet, but this is just too good. Well, I wasn’t joking, I was drunk. But now, I’m neither!” She smiled brightly at them. “I hereby declare this a genuine bet.” She leaned across the table and grabbed each of their hands and shook them. “If you two genuinely fall into a real, honest, happy, mature relationship, I will buy you that stupid dinner at _Bentley’s_.”

Weasley looked pale. “A real bet?”

Pansy waved a hand. “You’re off the hook. And besides, look at them!” She nodded in their direction. “They’ve made some half-arsed attempt at trickery and expected it to work. Even if they put all their effort into convincing us, they’re still going to fall through because you can’t fake that sort of thing.” She broke up into hysterical laughter. “And can you imagine that?”

The three of them fell back in their seats in laughter. Draco tried to contain his smile; it was all going perfectly.

“This is going to be brilliant,” Pansy enthused. “Please do try. I can’t wait to watch you attempt to make it look real.”

“You’ll have to get married before we’ll believe you’re properly dating,” Granger agreed, hiding her smile behind her glass. “And even Harry’s not that pigheaded.”

“Oi!” Potter interrupted. “Firstly, rude. Secondly, do you really think that if we were trying to trick you, we’d _whisper_ in front of you?”

“I think you’d make a quick distraction, like complaining loudly about the signage above the bar, so we we’re all looking at it, and then quickly confirm you were going ahead with things because you’re both so terrible at working together you couldn’t trust that one of you wasn’t going to hang the other one out to dry,” Weasley suggested, smirking. “Am I right?”

Weasley was good. Fortunately, they had anticipated as much. Draco raised his eyebrows, pretending to be impressed.

“Well, Potter, it would appear our charming acquaintances have such a low opinion of our intelligence that they think we would attempt such a gauche act.” He turned to Potter and had to fight back a laugh at the narrowed eyes that met him.

“No, Malfoy, it would _appear_ that your complete inability to trust I’m a capable human has given the game up before we could even begin.” Potter shoved his glass away and glared at Draco with disgust.

Draco was impressed. Game on.

He threw his hands up in the air. “Heaven forbid I treat the Saviour like a real human, capable of mistakes just like the rest of us. Silly me—I forgot you’re some kind of demigod instead.” He gave an elaborate bow. “Would you like your tribute in cash, or do you take credit?”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Christ, Malfoy. Can you not be a giant git for just five seconds? I don’t know why I even bothered.”

“You were wooed by my irresistible charm. It’s okay to say it, Potter. The truth will set you free.”

The other three were stifling laughter across the other side of the table, which was precisely what he and Potter had been angling for. Now came the difficult part. Draco glanced above them, to where the hovering candles cast gentle light across the table. It made everyone look just that little bit ethereal, like they were one breath away from melting into the shadows. Places like this made a person feel like they were removed from time, like anything could happen. It was perfect.

“Do you really think that little of me?” Potter asked suddenly, and Draco’s breath caught in his throat.

He looked back down to see Potter watching him. Potter’s eyes shimmered in the unsteady light of the candles, making him look like he was crying one moment and fiercely bold the next.

“What?” Draco asked, making sure his words came out just that little bit uncertain.

It wasn’t difficult.

“You heard me.”

Across the table, Pansy, Weasley, and Granger had stopped laughing. The way Potter was looking at him was like nothing Draco had ever experienced before. They’d argued in their time, even after they became friends of a sort. It was nothing like this. Potter argued like he was wielding a sword, righteous and full of fury, no quarter given. But the way he was arguing now was as if Draco had already drawn the first blow.

Draco cleared his throat, as uncomfortable as if this fight was genuine. Potter was too good at this; it felt real.

“Of course I don’t think little of you,” he insisted.

“Are you sure about that?” Potter’s eyes flashed—again with that curious mix of pain and anger. “Because you went through the plan so many times, I felt like an actual child by the end.”

“I wasn’t—”

“I know this is all fun and games to you, but it’s no wonder they were pissing themselves laughing the other night.” He jabbed a finger at their friends, before turning immediately back to Draco. “You have no respect for anyone but yourself. How could you possibly pull off a functional relationship?”

Every word had been planned, but Draco saw red.

“Me?” he gaped, incredulous. “What about you? Open up the dictionary to ‘anger issues’, and it’s got your face printed right there beside the definition!”

Potter laughed—a humourless sound that sent shivers down Draco’s spine. “Right. Well. Enjoy your night, guys. I’m suddenly not in the mood.”

Then, he got up and stalked away. The plan was that Draco would follow, insisting to the others that he needed to fix things, but he found that all he could do was stare after Potter’s retreating figure in shock. Finally, he turned back to the others and saw a mixture of confusion and pity on their faces.

“I’m—” Draco began, but then he stopped.

He wasn’t sure how to properly convince them that he was going to go after Potter and fix this. How on earth could you come back from an argument like that?

“It’s all right,” Granger said kindly, giving her head a little shake and turning to face him. “It’s not your fault. He gets like this sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Weasley said, still looking at the space where Potter had disappeared. He looked like he was about to say more, but he fell silent.

“He’ll be fine in a day or two,” Granger went on, reaching across the table and patting Draco’s hand. “You’ve just never seen it before. He’ll hardly even remember what he said.”

“Right,” Draco said slowly.

His heart was racing so fast in his chest that he felt like he was going to throw up. He never wanted Potter to look at him like that again. It made him think of bathrooms and more blood than one person should be able to spill and still live.

Then, he remembered the plan. He stood up.

“I’m going to go after him,” he said firmly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t!” Granger’s eyes widened in shock, and Weasley shook his head furiously.

“It never helps, mate,” Weasley insisted.

“I’d listen to them, Draco,” Pansy said, still looking a little stunned at the whole thing. “They know best.”

Suddenly, Draco’s uncertainty was drowned by a flood of rage. They were Potter’s friends, and for all they knew Potter had just exploded—irrationally and full of pain. It was obvious something was very, very wrong, and they were just going to let him isolate himself for days?

“No,” Draco said icily, stepping away from the table. “Don’t think I will, Pansy dearest. Enjoy your night.”

Then, he turned around and pushed his way through the crowd to the front door. It was freezing outside, and a light snow had started to fall. Potter was nowhere in sight, but they had planned to meet back at Draco’s place, so that was no surprise. With only a small amount of trepidation, he turned on his heel and Apparated away.

When he steadied himself against the wall of his foyer, it took him a moment to discern the shadowed figure leaning against the stairs.

“Why didn’t you turn the lights on?” he asked, waving his wand.

The part of him that was still in full-blown flight mode after their ‘fake’ argument flared into life the second he saw Potter’s face. A thin sheen of sweat covered Potter’s face, and his eyes stared blankly ahead. If Draco didn’t know better, he’d think Potter had just been tortured.

The knowledge that he looked this way because of their argument made Draco feel despicable.

“Are you all right?” The words came out before he could rethink them.

Slowly, Potter turned to face him. He blinked, like he’d only just realised Draco was here, and then his face changed. The vacant stare fell away and his face broke into a smile. If it wasn’t for the sweat and his sickly pallor, Draco would have thought he’d imagined the whole thing.

“Did it work?” Potter asked, brushing his hair back out of his eyes and adjusting his position against the balustrade.

Now that Draco was paying attention, he noticed a rigid tension to Potter’s posture.

The casual angle of his lean seemed suddenly deliberate, forced. Draco willed himself to act normal, like he was talking to a wild animal who was about to spook.

“It worked excellently,” Draco admitted. “They are convinced we’ve had a truly dreadful fight—our worst since Hogwarts—and that I’ve come chasing after you to soothe your poor, bruised ego.”

When in doubt, proceed as normal.

Potter tilted his head back and laughed. “God, so they actually bought it?”

Draco blinked. What was happening here? Potter had given a performance so realistic that even Draco had doubts it had been faked, and now he was saying it was nothing more than a joke? Even without the fact that Draco had come home to find him looking as though he was about to pass out, it didn’t add up.

“It was a convincing act,” Draco said carefully. “Quite convincing, actually. Are you sure there wasn’t some truth to it?”

Potter looked at him like he was barmy. “Truth? To what?”

“Well, you said I didn’t respect you, for a start.”

Potter waved his hand. “You don’t respect anyone. What does that matter?”

Draco gaped at him. Potter’s expression morphed slowly into confusion.

“Malfoy, did you actually think I was serious? We scripted it, for Christ’s sake.”

“You just seem a little… upset.”

“Upset?” Potter frowned and pushed away from the stairs. “I’m not upset. Shall we have a drink?”

Having few other options, Draco followed him into the kitchen. Potter looked around, clearly about to start rifling through cupboards, so Draco stepped in. He found a bottle of aged mead on the top shelf and poured two glasses.

He wondered whether to tell Potter what his friends had said about him but decided against it. There was a tiny part of him that urged caution right now. Something wasn’t right, and it was never smart to reveal one’s hand too early.

“What’s the next step, then?” Draco asked once they’d clinked their glasses together.

He held off drinking for the moment, instead watching the way Potter downed an entire glass of hundred-year-old mead in less than three seconds.

“Well, we let their imaginations run wild,” Potter said with a private smile. “Refuse to fill in the gaps, and then—” he paused, mulling it over.

Against his better judgement, Draco refilled Potter’s glass. Fortunately, Potter chose to sip this time.

“Then, we start to treat each other a little differently,” Potter finished.

“Right,” Draco agreed. “I go out of my way to be respectful to you, and you—”

“I control my temper,” Potter said with a laugh.

Draco couldn’t find it within himself to laugh. What the hell was going on with Potter? He looked down at his glass and found he’d already emptied it, compulsively sipping and sipping while Potter talked until it was all gone and he hadn’t tasted a drop.

“Well,” Draco said, staring at his empty glass like it might hold the answers of the universe.

“I’ve got to go,” Potter said reluctantly, sliding his glass back across the table. “Work’s calling me in early tomorrow. Got to run through a new operation.”

His eyes weren’t even bright; it was like he’d been drinking water.

“Right,” Draco said, and then, because something more was expected of him, “I’ll owl you.”

Potter winked. “It’s a date.”

Then, he left, leaving Draco feeling more wrong-footed by the second.

*

Draco had appointments all of the next day, and half the day after that, so he didn’t see any of his friends until lunch time two days after the fight. They acted like nothing had happened. Even though it suited their purposes, since they clearly didn’t suspect anything was up, a part of him strongly objected to their apathy.

“So, I went after Potter,” he said pointedly.

The man in question had yet to join them, and Draco intended to take advantage of those free minutes to get to the bottom of the Potter mystery.

Weasley winced. “How’d it go?”

Draco pressed his lips together. He didn’t want to tell them that Potter had laughed it off, since the entire purpose of the exchange was that they imagined that he and Potter had bonded.

He finally settled on, “Unexpectedly.”

Pansy narrowed her eyes in suspicion, but Granger only laughed. “Yeah, well, we did warn you. Did he throw things at you? Or did he just kick you straight out?”

Draco blinked at her. “Neither.” And then, because he had to give the right impression, “We talked.”

Granger’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Well, that’s more than we’ve ever gotten.” She shared a rueful glance with Weasley.

“Why didn’t you try harder?” Draco asked before he could stop himself, acid in his words.

Weasley’s eyes flashed. “What are you suggesting, mate? We did all we could.”

Granger placed a placating hand on his shoulder. “He’s right to ask, Ron. It doesn’t sound like we did.”

“Well, what does he care?” Weasley spat, still clearly incensed. “He doesn’t care about Harry. He doesn’t know what we—” He broke off.

Draco raised his eyebrows in polite curiosity. “What you—?”

Granger cast a glance towards the door and worried her lip with her teeth. Finally, she turned back to him and leaned closer. Pansy and Weasley leant in unconsciously.

“After the war, Harry was all over the place,” she said in a hushed voice. “He’d be crying one moment—never in front of us, mind you—and then the next second he’d be laughing hysterically over nothing. We could say the stupidest joke, and he’d be off. We figured he was grieving, so we didn’t want to press him, but eventually it just got…” she trailed off.

“Too much?” Draco suggested.

“Yes,” Granger confessed, looking guilty. “We cornered him and tried to get him to talk about it. I tried to get him to see a Mind Healer. Merlin, I don’t know how many times I tried to get him to go.”

“It wasn’t pretty,” Weasley interjected.

“In the end, we realised it was making him worse.” Granger looked like she was about to cry. “He was spending more and more time just crying. It was awful.” She took a deep breath. “Then, once we stopped pushing him, he started to get better. He still has his moments, but he’s got it together now, so whatever he’s doing, it’s working.”

Draco frowned. None of that sounded right, but he couldn’t put his finger on why.

“So, you just ignored him?” he asked finally.

“No!” Granger insisted, while Weasley glared at him. “Aren’t you listening? We gave him space. He knew we were there for him if he needed us, but whatever he was going through, he needed time to work it out on his own. He’s better now.”

“I see.”

Draco was prevented from saying more by the arrival of Potter, himself. The doors to the Ministry cafeteria swung open, and Potter stood in the doorway, looking around until he spotted them.

“We couldn’t have picked somewhere better today?” He asked, sliding into the seat besides Draco and wrinkling his nose.

“Draco and I both had appointments with investors,” Pansy said, propping her chin on her hand and regarding Harry with an expression that made Draco deeply concerned. “So, Potter, did you and Draco kiss and make up last night?”

She knew. Or at least suspected. Thankfully, Potter’s immediate reaction was one of shock. He leaned back in his seat.

“I’m sorry?”

Pansy blinked—a subtle sign that she was taken aback. Potter was really too good of an actor.

“After your argument,” she continued, ignoring the less-than-subtle looks she was being given by Granger and Weasley, telling her to cease and desist. “Did you smooth the waters?”

“Oh.” Potter cast an uncertain glance in Draco’s direction, and Draco felt his stomach flip. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re good.”

It was too real. Everything Potter said and did sank beneath Draco’s skin like an anchor, and the worst part of it all was that every word was fake. Draco swallowed, forced himself to drag his eyes away from Potter, and nodded.

When he looked up from the table, he saw that Pansy was watching him. Her brow was furrowed, but he couldn’t tell if she had caught onto their act, or if she knew what he was thinking right now. It couldn’t be the latter; even he didn’t know that.

He couldn’t risk Pansy catching onto them already. They needed to move forward.

He cleared his throat. “Potter.”

Potter turned to him, green eyes wide and guileless. They hadn’t planned this, but it was hardly out of the bounds of what they had discussed. Now Draco just had to get the words out without feeling like he was somehow doing something he was going later regret.

“I heard you worked on a large security breach case recently?” He was surprised he remembered that detail. Potter had only mentioned it in passing.

Potter blinked in surprise. “Yeah, the Barkley’s case. All the wards were shattered. How come?”

“I’ve been experiencing a little problem with pranksters recently. I wondered if you might take a look at the wards at my home? Share some of your expertise with me?”

This much was true. He kept getting problems with local teenage wizards breaking into his backyard and egging his house. He didn’t particularly care; he usually just egged them back.

Potter caught on quickly. His eyes flashed in understanding for the merest second, and then he adopted a sheepish expression. “Look, Malfoy… I know I called you disrespectful and everything, but you don’t need to prove anything to me.”

Draco lifted one shoulder in a shrug and turned away, poking his fork idly at the food on his plate. “I’d like your help nonetheless.”

Potter’s eyes held his for the longest moment, like he was studying Draco—curious, interested. It felt real, even though Draco knew it wasn’t. Then, he nodded and the moment passed.

“Right. I’m going to grab something to eat, then.” Potter left them at the table and headed towards the sandwich display.

When Draco turned back to the others, Pansy was still watching him.

“Draco, can I have a word?” she asked quietly, and that caution in her voice, more than anything else, sent warning bells ringing in his head.

“Am I going to like it?”

“Do you like anything?”

Draco snorted, though his heart was racing in his chest. Weasley and Granger were already deep in some conversation about someone or other’s niece, and so he had no excuse not to follow Pansy when she stood up and led him out into the hallway.

“What’s going on?”

She never had been one to mince words. Draco’s chest spiked in irritation; couldn’t she stop analysing everything for five seconds? They’d only just begun to put their plan into action, and she was already stomping all over it in six inch stilettos.

“I haven’t a clue what you mean,” he said and was relieved to hear it came out just as insulted and angry as he intended it to.

Draco only got angry when things were personal, which meant that Pansy wouldn’t have a reason to think that he was trying to fool her. After all, this wasn’t meant to be personal, was it? It was just a stupid little bet. Which left the question—why was he so angry?

“Something happened that night,” Pansy went on. “I’m still not sure it isn’t some big scheme of yours, but I’m beginning to think that less and less.”

She eyed him shrewdly. He said nothing. He could still feel the anger burning beneath his skin.

She sighed. “Draco, talk to me, please.”

“I don’t understand what you’re asking.” She was onto him; that was the only explanation.

“I’m asking you if you’re about to get hurt.”

Shock cut through his anger and left him reeling. “Get hurt? How on earth am I possibly about to get hurt? Potter’s going to help me with my security problem, and while that’s happening maybe he’ll realise he can actually come and talk to someone when he loses his temper instead of being abandoned by the people who call themselves his friends.”

Draco froze. Where had that come from?

Pansy jabbed a finger straight into his chest. “That’s what I’m talking about—that, right there. You’re obsessing over Potter again.”

“Excuse me?” Draco said before he had properly processed the words, then, “ _Again_?”

“Oh, come on. We were all there; don’t try to pretend it didn’t happen. Every other second it was ‘Potter this’ and ‘Potter that’. I was always worried it was going to be worse when you became friends, but it never happened so I thought you’d gotten over it.” She took a second to roll her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose between two manicured fingernails. “Of course, now that you’ve discovered he’s got some deep and tragic story to go along with the bad hair and glasses, you can’t take your eyes off him.”

“He always had a tragic story, Pansy. He’s the Boy Who Lived.”

She levelled him with a stare. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Stop pretending.”

He stared at the wall over her shoulder and pretended not to know.

“You’re attracted to arseholes, Draco. You need to accept this.”

Broken people. He was attracted to broken people. He understood them in a way that he didn’t understand anyone else these days, not any more.

But he was _not_ attracted to Potter.

“You’re worrying over nothing, Pansy,” he said as seriously as he could manage. “I’m not obsessing over Potter, and I’m not about to start just because the idiot has proven he gets a little cranky from time to time. We’ve always known that; it’s nothing new.”

She glared at him for long moments before finally nodding. He moved to go back inside, but she stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“And if this all turns out to be some elaborate plan to win that drunken bet,” she said sweetly, “then I’m going to castrate you.”

Using every ounce of control available to him, he forced himself to smile. “Of course.”


	2. Chapter 2

Potter came over to his house after work. It was strange to see him in Draco’s space like this. The afternoon sun streamed in the kitchen window, sending soft shadows dancing on the walls as the trees outside moved and swayed. Potter leant against Draco’s kitchen counter, a mug of steaming tea in his hand, and he seemed to be assessing Draco’s ceiling with the intense focus of a grand war master.

“I don’t understand how they’re getting through the wards,” he said finally, turning his piercing stare onto Draco.

It was like a bucket of ice water had been poured over Draco’s head, shattering the moment. He forced himself to pay attention again.

“Yes, well.” He waved a hand airily. “I might be letting the wards down once or twice to let them.”

Potter’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “You’re _letting_ them egg your house?”

“I’m _controlling_ how and when they egg my house, and thereby teaching them the value of consequences.”

“You egg them back, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

Potter laughed—head thrown back, eyes bright, fill-the-room-with-sunshine kind of laughter. Draco had never seen that in his house before, and certainly not from Potter. He was caught by the tiny crinkles of happiness around Potter’s mouth, the warmth of his eyes.

“So, this was entirely a ruse to make them think we’re bonding,” Potter said, taking a large gulp of tea and sighing with satisfaction.

“You already knew that, though.” Draco smiled over his mug. 

“At first. But then I saw the broken egg shells beneath the window and figured it was fifty-fifty.”

“Adds to the charm.”

“You’re mental.”

Something warm and soft curled in Draco’s chest at the way Potter was looking at him—gentle, almost affectionate. 

“What’s the next step for our relationship, then?” Potter asked. “The security charms are a great excuse for me to spend time here, if we can drag this out. How about I install the same protections that Barkley ended up with?”

“Does that take time?”

“We’ll have to get some ingredients. You know, go out in public, be seen together— _bonding_.” Potter waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“How scandalous.” Draco couldn’t help but smile.

Potter leaned back against the bench and looked thoughtful. “What do we want people to think when they look at us?”

“I don’t follow.”

“You know, what look are we going for? Are we secretly pining for each other? Is it a slow transformation from friends to lovers?” Potter winked. “Angry sex?”

Images of Potter spread out on Draco’s silk bedsheets, his hands tied above him with slender white ropes, hit Draco full force out of nowhere. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

“We need it to be believable,” Draco said slowly. “We’ve only just started attempting to be respectful around each other; we can’t jump straight into amorous behavior. People will just think we’re under a love potion.”

“See, that’s why angry sex is an option.”

The Potter in his mind writhed against the ropes, arching away from the bed and begging Draco for more even as his eyes flashed in defiance.

Draco’s cheeks flushed, and he looked away. “I don’t think that will work for what we want.” He cleared his throat. “Even if we do ignite rumors that we’re… together—”

“Fucking, Malfoy. You can say it.”

If Draco didn’t know any better, he’d say Potter was teasing him. There was a heavy amusement in his tone, and he was lounging against the counter like some kind of visiting royal. It was distracting. But he’d never backed down from a challenge from Potter yet.

He turned and met Potter’s gaze. “Even if we do ignite rumors that we’re fucking—” Potter’s eyes darkened, “—that’s not what will win us the bet. Hate sex is hardly a mature relationship, and Pansy would never pay out on that.”

“You have a point.”

Was it Draco’s imagination, or had Potter’s voice dropped half an octave?

“So we need to keep this natural,” Draco reiterated, thankful that his rapidly beating heart was somehow remaining inaudible. “Believable. We need to convince the world that we somehow fit together so perfectly, so inexplicably, that they can’t believe they never saw it before.”

The room felt warmer than before. Potter’s eyes were so steady on him, so unwavering, that Draco was having trouble breathing.

“If we can do that,” Draco finished. “Then Pansy will buy it.”

Potter regarded him with an unreadable expression. “You don’t think we should try something a little simpler first? Something more casual?”

At that, Draco laughed, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside him with a hint of hysteria. “Potter, we could never be casual.”

They fell into silence, something between them shifting and changing under the fading afternoon sun, though Draco couldn’t be certain what it was. Eventually, they finished their tea and Potter went back to examining the wards and making a list of everything they would need to install the complex new protection spells.

Draco felt like his skin was humming, burning with something unnamed and unknown. He allowed himself to fall into a quiet space that he rarely indulged in for fear of ambush—watching, listening, waiting. There was something comforting about Potter’s presence in his kitchen, making notes and humming to himself out of tune.

All too soon, Potter’s list was complete and they were ready to join the public.

*

Draco had been seen in public with Potter before, but there was something different about this. Usually when they were seen together it was in a group. They would stand on either end of their strange collection of friends and shoot insults at each other over everyone’s heads. It was safe, normal, expected.

Even the most casual observer could tell that today was different. He and Potter strolled through Diagon Alley together, and while they still traded insults, they also held a conversation.

It was difficult at first, a little stilted and uneven, until Draco realised that talking with Potter was very similar to arguing with him, once you found the right topic, and everything fell into place from there.

“I can’t believe you thought Professor Snape was a bad Potions Master,” Draco muttered, leaning in and smiling so that it looked as though they were discussing something secretive and amusing. “Do you know how many awards he won?”

“I never said he was a bad Potions Master,” Potter said quietly, winking at him.

Even though it was fake, it still made Draco shiver. It just looked so real.

“I said he was a _bad teacher,”_ Potter continued, unaware. “Did you know how well he _could_ have taught us? I had his annotated textbook, for Merlin’s sake. He deliberately taught us badly just so he could make sure he still held the power.”

Draco reeled from the new information. Still, Potter’s opinion didn’t sit entirely well with him.

“You don’t know that for sure,” he whispered, holding the door to the shop open for Potter.

He intended for the act to look as respectful and courteous as possible—it was the whole purpose of the exercise—but he was too distracted by the conversation. He ended up holding the door open but glaring at Potter as he went through.

Potter side-stepped out of the way and spun around so that he was walking backwards into the store, just so that he could keep looking at Draco while they argued.

“Why don’t I?”

“Because the man was completely socially ignorant,” Draco snapped, pasting on a saccharine smile when the shopkeeper turned their way. “How do you know that he wasn’t teaching to the best of his ability? Perhaps the true extent of his knowledge couldn’t be revealed in any way other than his own annotated textbook.”

Potter paused, looking faintly impressed. “I suppose.” Then, he lifted a finger. “But what if he wasn’t? Half the lesson was just copying his notes off the board; why couldn’t he just write the same notes on the board as he wrote in his textbook?”

“Maybe because you’d stolen it. Which, by the way, you still haven’t explained.”

The quiet sound of someone clearing their throat made Draco spin around. The shopkeeper was staring at the two of them, eyes wide, and he realised with slowly dawning horror that he knew her.

“Hannah Abbott, right?” He slid his eyes to Potter briefly, warning him to drop the argument before it ruined any chance of their fake relationship taking root in people’s mind. Then, he turned back to Hannah. “It’s been a while.”

“It has,” she agreed, looking from Draco to Potter and back again. “You two have… changed.”

“Changed?” Draco asked, forcing a smile onto his face. “How have we changed?”

He knew they hadn’t exactly come across like they were falling in love with each other; the ruse was off to a terrible start.

“Well, it’s more how you haven’t changed,” she continued slowly.

A terrible, terrible start.

“But I suppose you no longer look like you’re out to kill each other.”

A faintly terrible start.

“Now, you’re just arguing like an old, married couple actually,” she finished with a snort, the perplexed expression disappearing from her face as she said the words. “Yeah, that’s it.”

He heard a choking sound from beside him, and when he looked over, Potter’s eyes were wide. Draco even felt a little stunned, himself.

Well, he could work with that.

He gave Potter a secret smile, making sure that Hannah saw. Potter’s cheeks flushed in a way that made Draco’s chest tighten, but he had no time to examine it further.

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” he said airily. “We were after some potion ingredients; would you be able to help us?”

“Of course,” Hannah reached a hand out for the list Potter was holding and scanned the items. “I’ll just be a few minutes. You can take a seat if you like.”

Draco led the way to the artfully arranged seating in the corner and settled back to survey the room. Something about Hannah’s reaction was bothering Draco, but he couldn’t put his finger on what the issue was. In lieu of an answer, he propped his chin on his hand and studied Potter, taking in the harsh lines of his face—how they seemed so much starker than they had in his youth—and the way his eyes skittered between the door and windows and back again.

So many things were a mystery to Draco these days, when only last week, his life had been blissfully dull and ordinary. Perhaps it had been a mistake to embark on this ruse with Potter. It had seemed such a laugh at the time—make people think they were in love, collect on the debt, throw it in Pansy’s face. What could go wrong?

But now… now, Draco felt several layers deep in a deception that was quickly becoming so convoluted, he was no longer entirely sure what was a lie and what was truth.

That was when it hit him—the thing that was bothering him about Hannah’s reaction. She had certainly responded as he’d wished, but she hadn’t been responding to the game. They hadn’t even been playing at that point. They had been so deep in their argument that they’d entirely forgotten to act out any believable chemistry. Which meant that Hannah had thought they acted like a couple simply because… they acted like a couple.

Pansy’s words echoed back through his mind: _you’re attracted to arseholes, Draco._

Maybe there was some truth there. There’d always been something about Potter that drew Draco in… maybe spending this time together trying to fake an outward relationship was messing with his brain. Maybe his pretend flirting was becoming real… it certainly seemed as though Hannah thought so.

A sinking feeling began in his chest and dropped straight down into his stomach. This couldn’t go on. If there was even the faintest chance that this was real for Draco, then… well, he owed himself more self-respect than that. He’d fought hard to get to a place where self-respect was a hill he’d die on, but he was here now, and he wasn’t backing down that easily.

He held his tongue all through the rest of the exchange with Hannah, playing along when Potter smiled at him, letting Potter get the door and take his elbow to Apparate them home.

When they finally arrived in Draco’s foyer, he took a deep breath and stepped backwards.

“I think we should stop.”

“Stop?” Potter looked at him, confused. “Stop what?”

“This charade.” Draco waved a hand vaguely through the air.

Potter stilled. “You don’t want to win the bet anymore?”

“I just—” Draco broke off, ran a hand through his hair, searched for some way to explain what he meant without giving himself away. “Don’t you think it’s a bit ridiculous? We should just… I don’t know. Go back to our ordinary lives and pretend it never happened.”

The look on Potter’s face froze him solid. In the span of an instant, the cheerful, jovial expression melted away to leave something unrecognisable in its place.

“Our ordinary lives,” Potter repeated, his voice slow and thick. “Right.”

Something wasn’t right.

“Yes.” Draco felt like he was treading on broken glass. “Things will just return to how they were before. It was a silly idea, after all, really. We’d need to be married before Pansy would believe it, and even then, she wouldn’t trust me.”

Potter leaned back against the wall, and his eyes seemed suddenly dull. It was as if all the life had been drained away from them.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” His brow furrowed, like he was trying to comprehend something that was just out of reach.

“Is… is something the matter, Potter?” Draco lowered his voice.

Without even meaning to, he was reaching towards Potter, some part of him aching to console the broken man before him. What had happened in the last few minutes to lead to _this_?

“I just… I don’t know. I was having fun, I guess.” Potter shrugged.

It wasn’t that Potter was in love with him; Draco wasn’t so deluded as to believe that. There’d be signs. Draco wasn’t blind. The change had come over Potter when Draco had said they would go back to their old lives… like that was something to fear.

Flashes of memory burst into Draco’s mind, contrasting his image of Potter as he used to be and the Potter he’d come to know in the last week. It was true that Potter had always been a little reserved, a little less likely to lose himself in drink and laughter on their pub nights and more likely to watch the door and Apparate them home. It was equally true that Potter had seemed… different, this last week. He’d been quick to smile with Draco, full of wit that Draco had never seen before.

Draco frowned. He was trying to put together the pieces, but he was certain he didn’t have them all yet. All he knew was that Potter had been different when he was with Draco, when they were playing this ridiculous game. He’d been more like the Potter that Draco remembered seeing across the Great Hall at lunch time, laughing with his friends. It wasn’t until now that Draco realised how long it had been since he’d seen that person at all.

“Well, I guess we could focus our efforts,” Draco said slowly.

Some of the spark returned to Potter’s eyes, and Draco felt a weight lift away from his chest.

“Perhaps I’m giving her a little too much credit.” He twisted his expression into something like wry amusement, when in reality, his heart was beating so fast he thought he was going to be sick. Something wasn’t right here, and he just couldn’t figure out what it was. “I’m sure if we play it carefully, we might have a shot at winning.”

“I think Hannah might have gone home with a bit of gossip, tonight,” Potter said with a grin, and it was like the previous conversation had never happened.

His face transformed, the shadows fading away and leaving laughter in their wake. Draco’s knees felt weak, and he steadied himself by leaning casually against the wall to avoid making it obvious.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I caught her whispering to the other attendant when we were leaving, pointing our way. Might even get something in the _Prophet_.”

Draco tilted his head back and laughed. “That’ll be a sight.”

With only the barest hint of trepidation, he made his decision.

“All right then, Potter. Let’s go plan our first date.”

They talked well into the night. Before long, they weren’t even discussing the bet anymore—they were just talking. Part of Draco was singing in delight, reveling in finally having the attention of the famous Harry Potter. The other part of him—the part that was older and less eager for validation—was just enjoying himself.

It was nice to spend time with someone just for the sake of their company, not because of some overdue obligation. Not that Draco only saw his friends out of obligation, but it was different. There was an unspoken list of items to update each other on, past conversations to relay and gossip about, mutual enemies to diss. Conversation with Potter was more honest, freer.

He found himself ruminating on what Potter had said earlier today, what he’d been afraid of. Perhaps Potter’s ‘ordinary life’ lacked this level of friendship as well. Maybe this was his awkward way of saying that he enjoyed Draco’s company and wanted to have more of it.

But Draco wasn’t sold on that.

“Why do you want to win this bet?” he asked suddenly, when they were reclined back in their armchairs and half asleep. “I know you want to get one up over the other three, but it’s getting a bit complicated, don’t you think? Don’t get me wrong—I’d love to get Pansy back with a prank as much as the next person, but I think it’s going to take a lot more effort than we initially thought.”

Potter glanced over at him, eyes already bleary with weariness. It was well past midnight.

“I dunno,” he said finally, sounding a bit surprised. “I mean, I thought it’d be funny, yeah. And I guess the thought of how much work it’s going to take doesn’t bother me?”

Draco snorted. “So it’s just a lark to you, then.”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

The answer was so free of duplicity, so honest and simple, that Draco couldn’t help the smile that spread over his face. After a few seconds, Potter returned it—sleepy and soft around the edges.

Draco’s chest filled with warmth that had nothing to do with the crackling fire in front of them. The thought that Potter enjoyed his company enough to waste hours of time together made his inner eleven-year-old dance with glee.

“I guess I’m all right with that,” he said, closing his eyes and letting drowsiness overtake him.

Potter was content to waste his time on a silly lark with Draco.

Draco was more than all right with that.

*

They fell asleep in their arm chairs that night, and when morning came, they barely had the chance to say two words to each other as they raced to get ready and run out the door. But they promised to meet again on Saturday, ready for their first date.

It was both practicality and believability that led them to choose the library as the location for their first date. They were able to continue the charade of Potter helping Draco with his security charms by doing research in a public space, but also give the carefully cultivated impression that there was chemistry between them.

The fact that Rita Skeeter had just published a riveting exposé on their escapades into Diagon Alley the other day only served to fuel their enthusiasm for the charade.

“Seriously though,” Potter said, shoving a large tome aside and glaring at Draco. “I think we really do need to improve your wards.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “That’s precisely what we’re doing, _dear_.”

Merlin, the man may as well have told all of Diagon Alley that they were just faking it. A librarian passing by looked at them oddly but continued on without stopping, her trolley squeaking into the distance. This place wasn’t quite as hushed as the Hogwarts library, but Potter’s voice still travelled.

Potter rolled his eyes. “Sure. Fine. So I’ve been looking into the wards we want to use, and I highly recommend this one.” He pushed a smaller book across the table.

Draco drew it close and began to read. He shook his head a little, blinked to refocus, and read the paragraph again. Then he began to laugh.

“Have you read this?” He looked up at Potter incredulously.

A hint of a smile appeared in the corner of Potter’s mouth. “What?” he asked innocently.

“It’s a mirror ward. Whatever is cast upon it reflects back on the caster. You know what that means?”

“Eggs,” Potter said, still with that faint smile.

“Eggs,” Draco agreed, laughing again. “And toilet paper, and whatever else they levitate up to my second-story window. This is ingenious. I can just hide behind the curtain and watch.”

“Who said Gryffindors can’t be crafty?”

The atmosphere had changed, somehow. Even the imposing brick walls of the old library didn’t feel quite so looming. The air was lighter, and Draco was smiling with an ease and general sense of contentment that he hadn’t felt in quite some time.

Potter’s smiled faded, replaced with a more sombre expression that Draco usually associated with Auror work and late-night cases that went south. His stomach flipped.

“The wards are designed to keep unwanted people out, though,” he said quietly. “Their spells get reflected back before they ever reach your internal wards, and since they’re essentially impervious to magic, it makes the wards doubly hard to disentangle if you don’t know where the entry point is. You won’t have to worry about the pranks getting worse or becoming something more than just what kids do on a Friday night.”

“I’m not worried,” Draco insisted. “It’s harmless.”

“Maybe now, but why are they even doing it at all?”

_Because I’m the crotchety old man in the haunted house on the corner,_ Draco thought to himself.

“It’s what kids do,” he said aloud, keeping his voice light and distant.

“Still,” Potter said. His voice was surprisingly firm, the unexpected authority in it sending shivers down Draco’s spine. “I’d be more comfortable if you had some kind of additional security in place.”

It almost sounded as if Potter cared, and that sent a rush of something dangerous coursing through Draco’s entire body. He changed the subject before he did something stupid, like acknowledge out loud the horrible realisation that was slowly dawning on him.

“Shall we go and get some lunch? I’m starving.”

It was the cue for them to transition their study date into something more serious for the watchful eye, but Potter regarded him for several moments more before he finally nodded and began to pack away their books. Draco tried to ignore the curious faces that turned their way as they cleared away the mess they’d made over the last couple of hours. He knew the other patrons would gossip as soon as the door was shut behind them. He knew they were paying attention to every little detail—noting how close Potter was standing to him, watching the way Potter held out Draco’s coat to him, helped him juggle his books and scarf.

The problem was that none of those things were an act. Potter simply lived and breathed chivalry, even to someone like Draco. It didn’t mean anything, but he could see on the watchful, curious faces how much they thought it did. He was sure his own face revealed far too much of how much he wished it was.

As the heavy wooden doors fell shut behind them, finally hiding the whispering couples and curious faces, Draco didn’t feel triumphant that their ruse was taking shape; he felt exposed.

There was a little soup café tucked behind the library, and they made their way through the bustling crowd of Diagon Alley to its narrow entrance. The second they stepped through, the cold of the frosty weather faded away and they were hit by the warmth of a roaring fire.

“Huh,” Draco murmured, looking around. “I didn’t expect this.”

“It’s a surprise, yeah,” Potter said, shrugging off his coat and holding out his hand to take Draco’s. “I’ve only been here once, but it made me think of the Gryffindor common room.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “So, naturally, you take me here for our first date. Typical. I feel like a werewolf who’s been unwillingly scent-marked.”

Potter threw back his head and laughed—a rich, open sound that made several heads turn their way. Draco tried to bite down on the smile that came in response, but it was like trying to hold back the tide.

“Table for two?” The waitress smiled at them, smoothing down the checkered apron she wore over her black trousers and shirt. It wasn’t quite the homely Muggle look Draco was used to, but it was strangely endearing.

“Yes, thanks,” Potter replied.

He sent their coats sailing toward the coat room with a flick of his wand, and they followed the waitress to their table in the corner. The café was full of couples huddled together over their steaming bowls of every kind of soup imaginable. Barely anyone looked up as they crossed the room, and Draco finally began to relax. He wasn’t sure why he was so tense except that the falseness of their entire act was starting to get to him. He just wanted to enjoy lunch with Potter, get to know him a little. If someone looked through the window, made an assumption, and snapped a pic, great; but he didn’t want to deal with pretending something was happening when it really wasn’t.

Particularly when it really was.

They took their seats and ordered two bowls of the daily special, which arrived before Draco had even settled properly into his chair.

He raised his eyebrows. “Good service.”

Potter grinned. “Yeah, it’s pretty great.”

Draco took a sip and closed his eyes in bliss at the first taste. It was a rich vegetable soup, full of flavour and a sharp tang of spice that he couldn’t name. He arranged his napkin and set to it, trying not to look like he was as starving as he suddenly felt.

“How is work?” he asked after the silence began to stretch too long.

He realised that he had never asked that question before.

Potter looked up in surprise. “It’s all right,” he began, the words rolling off his tongue like a rote response. Then he sighed and set down his spoon. “It sucks.”

Draco blinked.

“Do you know how hard it is to get anything approved by these people?” Potter kept speaking, unaware of Draco’s reaction. “They care more about money than they do about helping others.”

“Well, I could have told you that.”

Potter snorted. “Just last week we had a case where a half-blood shopkeeper was targeted. His whole shop was destroyed, horrible messages painted on the walls, family threatened… the works. Do you know what the Ministry did?”

A sinking feeling settled deep in Draco’s gut. “No?”

“Filed it as a minor misdemeanor.”

The sinking feeling grew, spreading cold fingers through Draco’s veins. He couldn’t say he was surprised, but Potter obviously wasn’t taking it with the same jaded dismissal that Draco had. Was this part of everything that was going on with Potter right now?

“Disgusting,” Draco said, surprised to hear the venom in his own voice. “What came of them?”

Potter shrugged. “Community service is as much as they get for that. Meanwhile, the shopkeeper is terrified for his life and thinking of closing up. It’s not right.”

Draco made a vaguely committal noise and ate some more of his soup. Potter was right; it wasn’t fair. But when was anything fair?

“We won the war but nothing changed,” Potter continued.

For a moment it felt like the walls were closing in. There was something in Potter’s voice, something that was all twisted in upon itself until there seemed no clear way free of the darkness. Was that really how Potter felt? Was that really how the _saviour of Wizarding kind_ felt?

Draco set down his spoon. “Some things changed,” he said carefully.

“Nah. Nothing that mattered.”

There was no change in Potter’s features, no flash of emotion anywhere to be seen. His face had closed off, the walls creeping up brick by brick until there was nothing of the man Draco knew left on the surface. Potter was meant to be fire, fury, and justice. Only a moment ago, he had been just that, but now… There was no sign of it.

“Surely the small matter of people’s lives being saved is considered a net gain,” Draco said injecting as much cynicism into his voice as possible despite how dry his mouth was.

For a moment, Potter didn’t respond. His eyes were strangely glassy and distant. Draco’s heart leapt into his mouth and he was a hair’s breadth from reaching across the table to shake Potter when he suddenly blinked back into focus.

“Of course,” Potter said, still with that strangely distant expression. “Sorry, I think it’s just been a long day.”

The words were too light, too distant. Draco had the strangest feeling that Potter wasn’t even in the room with him.

The conversation moved on and Draco let it. They had several glorious minutes of Quidditch chat while Draco’s heart rate returned to normal, but just as he was really relaxing, everything came crashing down.

The monkey Patronus scurried into the room and clambered onto the table between them.

“There’s been a Sev One, Potter,” an unfamiliar voice said urgently. “We need you immediately.”

Draco’s stomach turned at the sight of all the colour draining away from Potter’s face.

“A Sev One?” he asked as the Patronus faded.

Potter was already standing, Accioing his coat from the coat room. “Severity one,” he said shortly. “If it’s one of my cases, it’ll be an open security breach with threat to kill.”

“Merlin,” Draco breathed, standing and Accioing his own coat as well. “Can I help? Do you need me to get anyone?”

Potter shook his head, throwing a few Galleons down on the table. He shook his head distractedly. “No. No, I’ll catch up with you later, yeah?”

“All right,” Draco said, but he was talking to an empty chair; Potter had already gone.

*

Draco didn’t mean to hunt down Granger; he was only heading to an appointment in the Ministry. Though, if he was forced to be honest with himself, he could admit he’d taken a small detour on his way there. Several small detours. Early.

He found himself outside her office, and then before he knew it he was knocking on the closed door and entering before he’d had the chance to be refused.

Granger looked up with an indignant frown, but the moment she laid eyes on Draco her expression softened. She put down her parchment and smiled at him.

“I don’t often see you on this floor!”

“No, I was just passing through,” Draco said, shutting the door and coming to sit opposite her.

He felt suddenly awkward, uncertain about his welcome. Uncertain, too, about whether he should be doing this at all.

“I wanted to ask you about Potter,” he blurted out abruptly.

Granger’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, but she waited patiently. He stared at the ornate cornice above her desk, searching for the words as if he might find them hidden in sixteenth century ornamental detailing.

“You and Weasley said that he’s better than he was,” he continued slowly.

“You can call us by our first names you know,” she interjected.

Draco smirked. “Doesn’t feel right. So, you said he’s better than he was, but I just wondered whether you were _sure_ about that?”

Granger frowned and leant forward on the desk. Her long, bushy hair fell into her face, but she didn’t seem to even notice. Draco had no question that he’d already had her full attention, but he suddenly felt like he now had her scrutiny.

“What do you mean, are we sure? We’re as sure as we can be. I mean, you’ve seen him at his worst. It still happens, but it’s never as often as it was.”

Draco chewed on his lip. “But the other signs…”

“Other signs?”

“The agitation, the vacant staring—surely you’ve noticed.”

Granger shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Well, to a certain extent, those are just Harry. He’s an emotional person.”

Draco fought back the surge of anger that threatened to overwhelm him and struggled to view things from Granger’s perspective. He knew she meant well and wasn’t an idiot; he just had to remind himself that they viewed things a little differently.

“But when those behaviours overlap so much with the signs of something more serious,” he hedged, watching closely for her reaction. “How do you know where one ends and the other begins?”

“I don’t suppose you ever really do,” she admitted. “But we’ve spent a lot of time together. I think I’d know if something was wrong or if something had changed.” She leaned forward suddenly. “Draco, are you up to something?”

Draco blinked in surprise. “What?”

“It’s just a bit strange.” She tilted her head to the side. “I’d think you were trying to convince me you cared about Harry so you could win that bet, but this would just be such a strange way to do it. I’m puzzled.”

Draco fought to keep his expression neutral. “This has nothing to do with the bet,” he said carefully.

Granger’s brows furrowed together, her face transforming from faintly confused to concerned in less than a second. “Then why are you so worried? I didn’t think the two of you were that close. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Her expression and her words left Draco feeling raw, stripped bare. What was he supposed to tell her? That something was wrong with Potter and he couldn’t stop thinking about it? That he felt an overwhelming urge to help Potter because he didn’t think anyone else was going to?

“I’m just curious,” he said finally. “Potter seemed so… off-kilter the other day, after our argument. I thought there might be something more serious brewing.” He forced himself to smile. “But you know best.”

He said his goodbyes, ignoring the way Granger studied him, the shrewdness to her gaze. He didn’t have time to dissect it, didn’t even have the energy to begin. He had a meeting to get to, and then, tonight, he had a party.

*

Draco only managed to pay attention to half his meetings that afternoon; the rest of his mental energy was spent on the mystery of Potter.

He wondered if Potter was having flashbacks to the war. It wouldn’t be a surprise. With everything Potter had gone through, it would be shocking if he _didn’t_ have some form of intrusive memory of his trauma.

But the more Draco watched him, the more he wasn’t sure it was that simple. There were signs that it could be war flashbacks, but there also seemed to be something more—something that simmered below the surface in a way that the harsh, jolting reminders of a war didn’t tend to do.

And there was the conversation with Granger. She’d said he hadn’t changed. Granger was smart; surely, she’d know if Potter carried this much damage from the war. So, if that was the case, what did it all _mean_?

He finished styling his hair, deliberately ignored the worn expression that stared back at him from the bathroom mirror, and left for Pansy’s party.

It was a Friday night affair, which meant no expense had been spared. The entry was lined with tasteful garlands, and waiters emerged from every corner with a tray of drinks the moment you felt the slightest bit thirsty.

It was the kind of party that used to have all the Gryffindors shuffling their feet and staring awkwardly at the artwork on the walls. But then Pansy had bridged the gap between them all and apologised for letting a moment of fear and weakness overwhelm her that night in the Great Hall. Potter, of course, forgave her immediately, and they’d all learned that night—after several drinks—that he truly had gone into the forest to die. Had died, in fact.

Which, as Potter had said, sort of made Pansy’s suggestion to hand him over to Voldemort the smartest. But everyone had been crying too much by then to give that thought much response.

Draco scanned the crowd, feeling at an odd remove from the world around him. His small circle of friends weren’t here yet, and his only two choices were to mingle or to remain lost in his own thoughts. It was hardly a competition. This crowd looked about as entertaining as an evening with Binns. The only person he wanted to speak to—Blaise—was trapped in conversation with three adoring witches and had only managed a brief wave to Draco over the tops of their heads.

He remembered that night strongly now—the way Potter had looked as he’d recounted the events of the forest, the way their friends had one by one broken down at the memory. Most of all, Draco remembered the way he’d needed to excuse himself from the room because he couldn’t fucking _breathe_. The way the walls had seemed to close in every time he’d tried to move.

Music filtered around him, emitting from the walls thanks to one of Pansy’s clever entertainment charms. He thought it might be one of the songs that had played that night, which explained his little trip down memory lane. Though, if he was honest with himself, he had known tonight was going to be a mess no matter what he did. His thoughts were too full of Potter, too full of the increasing unease that something was building beneath their feet—an explosion waiting to happen.

He didn’t think it was only flashbacks. He’d seen Potter that night, seen how he reacted to the memory of the most traumatic events of his life. Draco didn’t pretend to be an expert, but his gut was telling him something else was happening too.

Someone was waving at him. He forced himself back to the present enough to realise that Potter, Granger, and Weasley were waving at him from the other side of the room. He made his way through the crowd, nodding politely and smiling to make it seem like he hadn’t just elbowed roughly eighteen people in the ribs just to clear a path. When he made it to the others, Weasley was in hysterics.

“Have you even seen you when you do that?”

“Pardon?” Draco tried to look indignant and failed, mostly on account of the fact that Potter was staring at him like he was a particularly decadent appetizer.

“They’re so confused.” He clapped Draco on the back and shook his head. “It’s unreal. If they only looked down, they’d see you practically punching them, mate. But they fall for it every time just because you smile at them. Disgusting really. How is it that _you_ have a winning smile? Seems unfair, mate.”

“Of course I have a winning smile,” Draco protested, displaying it to full effect. “I am my father’s son.”

Weasley shuddered. “A fact I try to forget. Come on, let’s grab a drink.”

Three waiters appeared at their side, offering champagne and scotch in crystal tumblers. Soon enough, they found themselves settled on a chaise off to the side, and Draco found himself relaxing.

“How did that sev one go?” he asked Potter. “Did you deal with it?”

Potter frowned. “It’s down to a sev four now, but it’s not pretty.” He lowered his voice. “I think they’re taking bribes.”

“Bribes?” Granger hissed. “Who? Why?”

“Of course they’re taking bribes,” Draco muttered, more to Granger than Potter who seemed to at least understand how the world worked. “Even if you stop one, another will take their place. You can only ever manage that sort of system; you never stop it.”

“It’s _wrong_ ,” Granger protested, brow furrowed.

“Then please, by all means, make it stop,” Draco replied. “But until then… all you can do is stamp on it when it rears its ugly head.”

Potter laughed humorlessly while Granger got that far-off look in her eye that suggested she was making Plans. “The stamping isn’t going so well. The incident was a series of attacks on some shops in that little Wizarding shopping district in Bath. They used illegal potions, which means they were smuggled in, and given how hard the Ministry has been focusing on _that_ it means there’s a high likelihood officials were paid off.”

“How can you stand it?” Weasley sat forward on the chaise, elbows propped on his knees and a deep frown on his face.

Draco was surprised for a moment by his seriousness, though when he thought about it there was no reason to be. Weasley had always had a vicious honorable streak.

Potter shrugged, staring down into his tumbler of scotch. “Can’t, really. Just trying to stop it where I can.”

Draco let the conversation filter over him as he tried to think of something he could say to make Potter feel better, or to allay his fears in some way. But there was nothing. Potter worked for the Ministry; the Ministry was corrupt. There was nothing Draco could say or do to make that go away.

He leaned back into the softness of the chaise and studied the party. It seemed to be going well, but Pansy’s parties always did. He would see her for perhaps a collective five minutes at one of these things—otherwise she was too busy mingling with people she didn’t get a chance to see for months at a time. He thought he’d spotted her by the salad table at one point, but by the time he’d looked back she was already gone.

“Oh shit!” Potter’s frantic voice broke through his melancholy. “It’s Barb. Time to go.”

Draco turned in time to see Potter racing off to another corner of the room. He looked back to Granger and Weasley, but they were deep in conversation, so he had no choice but to jump to his feet and race after him.

“Who’s Barb?” He hissed when he’d caught up to Potter hiding behind an ornamental pillar.

“Remember that stalker I had?” Potter answered distantly, peeking around the pillar and apparently deciding it was the perfect opportunity to run to the next one.

Draco followed. “The one who kept sending love potions?”

“Yeah, that one. Well, I might have dated her a bit.”

“ _What_? You dated your stalker?”

“I didn’t know she was the stalker at the time!”

They crouched behind a group of partygoers making their way to the garden and followed them outside.

“How could you not know she was the stalker?”

“In my defence, she was very good at it.”

“Oh, good. Everyone needs a talent.”

Potter ducked behind the garden doors and stood in the shadow. Draco rather thought this was getting a bit ridiculous, but he followed all the same. Apparently, it was not a moment too soon, as a tall, blonde woman immediately emerged and looked around the garden, eyes piercing. She eventually decided on the far corner and set off down the path.

Potter visibly relaxed, then shot Draco a sheepish smile.

“Sorry. She just gives me the creeps. I met her at the bar, and it wasn’t until she kept dropping strange hints about potions in the mail that I realised it was all her—the letters, the lockets of hair, all of it. I didn’t know Pansy knew her.”

“I’ll get her taken off the guest list,” Draco said firmly, staring down the path to where the blonde had disappeared.

“Really?”

Draco looked over to see such relief on Potter’s face that he couldn’t help laughing. “I should just leave you to it since you dragged me over half the party like a mad-man,” he said pointedly.

Potter grinned at him. “You didn’t have to follow. I was happy looking like an idiot on my own.”

“Oh well in that case, you should have just said.” Draco smiled warmly back.

It was such a strange moment of calm between the two of them. Unlike any they’d had before, and yet so normal it seemed like this must be how they always were together. Why had he never taken the time to get to know Potter?

“Do I want to know why two of my favourite men are hiding in a dark corner together?”

The two of them jumped before realising it was only Pansy. She glared at Draco suspiciously, but for once he was confident they had no need to worry about being caught out. After all, this time their closeness had nothing to do with their charade.

That thought made Draco’s stomach flip in a pleasant sort of way.

“See that blonde woman at the end of the path?” Potter asked, pointing as casually as he could manage. “That’s Barb.”

“Barb,” Pansy repeated slowly. “Is that meant to mean something to me?”

“Remember the love potions?” Draco said happily. “And the letters in pink ink? And the hair?”

“Merlin’s saggy—” Pansy breathed. “You’re not serious.”

“’Fraid so,” Potter said with a laugh.

Pansy looked at the two of them shrewdly. “Well, that doesn’t explain why you’re _both_ hiding in a darkened corner. I had this corner prepared for couples, you know. There’s a spot right behind you that’s just perfect to use as a prop to push someone against while you ravish them.”

Draco knew her well enough to know she was only half-joking.

Potter tipped his head back and laughed. “No no, nothing like that. Draco just wanted to know why I was making a right tit of myself running at a crouch over half the party.”

It was utterly convincing, since it was the truth. Even Pansy looked momentarily taken aback before she shot Draco one last suspicious look. He had a sinking feeling that final look was for a different reason entirely.

“Right then,” she said, twisting her expression into something fierce and slightly terrifying. “Time to go deal with the stalker.”

She marched off down the garden path, stilettos clicking loudly against the stone.

“She’s a bit scary sometimes,” Potter breathed.

“So’s Granger.”

“Yeah, but we always knew that.”

Draco laughed, remembering the punch from third year with no small amount of discomfort. “Well, shall we return to the party?”

Potter grinned at him. “Are you sure? I hear there’s a really good wall just behind me.”

A rush of heat flooded Draco’s body. He was sure it was tinting his cheeks pink. Hopefully he could just blame the cold. “Quite sure,” he replied, only a little breathlessly.

They slipped back inside, into the warmth and comfort of the party. The guests were well and truly relaxed now, Pansy’s excellent catering and open bar doing their job well. By the time they’d made it back to Granger and Weasley, they each had a drink in their hands and several cocktail delicacies in their stomach.

Potter filled them in on the Barb situation, leaving them in equal parts horror and incredulity.

“You get some odd ones, Harry,” Weasley mumbled around a mouthful of pastry. “What about that wizard who went to Durmstrang? The one who kept hinting he had a sex dungeon.”

Draco spat out his drink. “He what?”

Potter waggled his eyebrows at him. “Should’ve checked that one out, I reckon.”

Draco didn’t have to fake the jealousy that he knew was creeping into his expression. Granger did a double take when she saw his face but didn’t say anything.

“Why _do_ you always get the creeps, though?” Weasley mused, his tone serious for once. “I mean, look at you. You’re a bloody catch. Smart, fit, saviour of the wizarding world; is it too much to ask that someone decent asks you out?”

The four of them fell silent. Draco didn’t quite know what to say to that, and from the look on Granger’s face she felt equally uncomfortable. After a moment, Potter just laughed.

“It’s not that bad,” he said. “I mean, you’ve got kind of a biased view, Ron, you gotta admit.”

“Huh?”

Potter shrugged, looking at the three of them like it should be obvious. “You’re my best mate. Of course you think I’m—” he waved his hand vaguely, “all that. It doesn’t mean other people do.”

“Harry!” Granger interjected. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“What?!” Potter held his hands up defensively. “I’m just saying the truth. It’s not a _bad_ thing; it’s just a fact.”

The words ran through Draco’s mind long after the conversation had moved on. The party faded around him—the noise, sights, smells all paling in comparison to the direction his thoughts had taken. There was something in those words, some key, if he just knew how to look.

He watched Potter for the remainder of the evening, watched him in a way he’d never thought to before. It was there, in every movement, every subtle shift to his expression. Potter was never calm, never just _there_. He’d catch sight of something out of the corner of his eye and his whole demeanor would change, or someone would say something and he’d just freeze up.

Draco had no idea how he’d never seen it before, except that he mustn’t have been looking; none of them were. But now, he was, and he couldn’t escape it. It was everywhere.

Draco just didn’t know what it was yet.

*

After the party, he and Potter made sure to keep their distance for a few days. They wanted to give people time to speculate, to guess what might be happening between the two of them. Someone had obviously gone to the press, since articles in the _Prophet_ soon emerged, complete with blurry images of the two of them huddled in the shadows at Pansy’s party.

Potter owled him after the first article was published.

_We look good together._

Draco had tried not to let the obvious teasing get to him, but his body had other ideas. Just thinking about the words and their casually flirtatious tone made his heart race, his skin tingle with anticipation. He told himself he was just starved for affection, but he knew it was a lie. He knew something was building inside him, as much as he tried to pretend it wasn’t.

He sent an owl back with a letter he’d written and rewritten a thousand times. Finally, playing it cool, he’d said only:

_I always look good._

He’d thought he’d won the exchange, except Potter sent back:

_I know._

What the hell was Draco meant to do with that?

He shoved the conversation from his mind and tried to focus on other things. On Sunday, he met with Pansy for lunch. As a last minute decision, he decided to host at the Manor so that Pansy and his mother had the opportunity to catch up on old gossip. The second he walked through the double doors of the drawing room, he wondered why he’d waited so long to do so.

The windows had been opened, filling the room not only with sunlight but with the sweet, heady scent of the honeysuckle that was planted in the bed below. His mother and Pansy were deep in discussion and only waved at him absently before turning back to their conversation. Draco caught a few words along the lines of fabric and swatches, and promptly tuned the rest out.

The house-elves had brought in several tea trays overflowing with sweet cakes and pastries, and the pot of tea seated between the two of them was already half empty. He tried to contain his smile as he wandered over to join them.

“Shall I come back later?” he asked, his voice full of genuine warmth as he smiled at the two of them.

“Sorry, darling.” Narcissa rose and swept him into a hug. “It’s just been so long. Did you know that Pansy has an exhibition opening in New York next year?”

Draco raised his eyebrows and turned to his friend. “I did not know that.”

Pansy’s fashion lines were renowned, not just on the catwalk but as pieces of art displayed across the world. She had investors lining up every other week for a piece of her pie, and Draco couldn’t be prouder of her.

Pansy waved a hand dismissively, practically bouncing in her seat with excitement. “It was only confirmed this morning,” she gushed. “I’m hoping to Portkey everyone over to see it, but we’ll have to arrange the details closer to the time.”

“Congratulations,” Draco said, bending forward to hug her. “I can only imagine how much work that took to arrange.”

“It’s been marvelous hearing about it,” Narcissa said reaching out to take Pansy’s hand and squeeze it briefly. “But I do have to run now. Be sure to keep me informed as to how it goes. You don’t have to wait for Draco to invite you.” She smirked at her son and then waved her goodbyes, leaving the two of them alone.

Draco eyed off the food, but found he wasn’t really in the mood for something so decadent. “Shall we go for a walk through the gardens?”

Pansy raised her eyebrows in surprise but agreed, and the two of them left through the garden door and set off down the path to the orchard.

“Are you all right, Draco?” Pansy asked when several minutes had passed in silence.

Draco looked up at her, but instead of the suspicion he expected, he saw only concern. “Fine, fine,” he said, waving a hand. “Work has just taken off lately. You know how it goes.”

Pansy snorted, the rude noise at odds with her perfect composure. Draco had never known another person to wear heels with such grace. “Yes, I know how it goes. But you seem like something more is on your mind. You just look so tired lately.”

The sun shining down on them warmed Draco’s shoulders, taking the edge off the chill that suddenly suffused him. Pansy was never one to let things go, and yet she wasn’t latching onto the drunken bet like he’d thought she would. If anything, she seemed to have forgotten about it.

No, she was latching onto something else instead. Something disturbingly closer to home.

“I am tired,” he admitted. “But it’s nothing to worry about. I think I just need a holiday.”

Pansy continued to watch him, her expression giving nothing away. “We could arrange for a holiday,” she said thoughtfully, “if you think it might make a difference. Or would you still be unable to let it go?”

“Let what go?”

“Potter, I assume.”

Draco stopped and stared at her, but there was no shrewdness in her gaze, no strategic calculation. Her expression was uncharacteristically open.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, the note of unease obvious even to his own ears.

Pansy sighed and continued to walk ahead. Draco raced to catch up with her.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you look at him lately,” she said finally. “It’s like you’ve never seen him before, even in the six years we’ve all been friends.”

Sometimes, it felt like Draco _hadn’t_ seen him before. He didn’t say that out loud.

“I don’t know think you even know you’re doing it,” she continued, her voice growing soft with concern. “I’ve seen that look on you before. I _know_ that look. It’s the look I worried about for years after we left Hogwarts and started becoming friends with all the Gryffindors.” She cast him a wry glance. “It’s the look I’d finally stopped worrying about.”

“You think I’m falling for him.” The words sounded oddly distant, like they were said by someone else.

“I think you’re vulnerable.” The words were quiet, barely above a whisper. “I think you’ve seen something you can’t look away from. And when you latch onto an idea, you’re like a dog with a bone, Draco. Honestly, sometimes I think you should have sorted Gryffindor; you think entirely too much with your heart sometimes, not your head.” She paused, and then shot a shrewd glance at his thighs. “Your heart and other things.”

Draco flushed. “ _Pansy_.”

“I’m only telling you what I see. I might be wrong, I might be right. I’m only telling you because I wouldn’t be any kind of friend if I didn’t.”

“You’re the best friend I’ve ever had,” Draco said earnestly.

She smiled at him—one of her rare, genuine smiles that lit up her entire face.

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m telling you, isn’t it?”

They linked arms and walked toward the orchard gate. The peacocks had flown over the fence again and were busy hunting for the insects that liked to congregate near the fruit. Pansy pointed out a particularly ferocious hunter with a giggle, and the seriousness of their conversation faded away.

Still, the idea lingered with Draco long after Pansy had gone home and he was left in the quiet of the Manor. He remembered lonely nights of walking these halls, unable to sleep even in the years before the Dark Lord had taken over everything. He remembered wicked dreams and forbidden fantasies.

He remembered them, and then he shoved them far away.

*

Draco froze in the doorway, unable to think or move when faced with the sight in front of him.

Everyone else had gone back to the dorms, but Potter was still in the showers, water sluicing over his shoulders and tracing a delicious line down the centre of his thighs. Draco stared at him, part of his brain wondering why the hell Potter was using the Slytherin change rooms, and part of him not caring in the slightest.

He cleared his throat, but Potter didn’t jump or turn around in alarm. He merely glanced over his shoulder, registered Draco standing awkwardly at the entrance with his broomstick slung over his shoulder, and turned away.

Draco gaped at him. Where was the fire? The bite? Gryffindor had just thrashed Slytherin two hundred and fifty to forty; why wasn’t Potter laughing at him? Surely that was why he was here—as some sort of dominance tactic against the Slytherins. Against _Draco_.

“Are you just going to stand there all day, or are you coming in?” Potter didn’t even bother to turn around.

Draco’s broomstick clattered to the floor. He only took three seconds of panicked second-guessing before he stripped off his leathers in record time and walked under the showerhead next to Potter’s.

His face flushed with warmth as he waited for Potter to say something about his choice of location, but Potter only looked over at him and smirked. Draco’s cock stirred at the sight.

Everything shifted—strange and unreal—and then Draco was in Potter’s arms, the water cascading over them as they kissed each other with an urgency that left Draco breathless and weak. They fought for control, wrestling each other against the slippery walls. Potter won, pinning Draco beneath the shower head by his wrists. Draco might have let him win.

“God, Malfoy,” Potter murmured against his mouth. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?”

Draco couldn’t find the words to reply, couldn’t think beyond the overwhelming sense of want that was consuming him.

“Stay there,” Potter commanded.

Then, he dropped to his knees.

Draco moaned, covering his mouth with his fist and biting down in an attempt not to give them away. He didn’t know if anyone still lingered after the match. But soon enough, he gave up his attempts for control and just let the sensation consume him, every touch and caress driving him closer to the edge.

“Potter,” he moaned, reaching down and gripping Potter by the hair. “Harry. Please.”

Potter twisted, running a finger gently along Draco’s arse, down the cleft of his cheeks, and it was too much.

Draco came down Potter’s throat, and the dream faded away.

He sat bolt upright in bed and stared at his bedroom walls in horror.

“What the fuck,” he breathed quietly before reaching down and double checking that he hadn’t done something incredibly embarrassing.

“Thank Merlin,” he groaned, dropping back against the pillows as his fingers confirmed dry bedsheets.

Dry bedsheets and an achingly hard cock.

It had been a while since he’d had a dream like that. Years. He’d almost forgotten about them; he’d had dreams like that starring roughly half of their year level after all.

Slowly, he let his hand drift down beneath the sheets, gripping himself through his pajamas. It felt amazing, but was he really going to do this? Was he really going to wank over Potter?

The memory of those lips over his cock flooded his mind, and he stopped caring. He slid inside his pajamas, palmed himself, and began to stroke.

The quiet sounds of the night faded away, overtaken by the memory of Potter’s voice moaning his name. It was over in minutes, his legs tangling in over-heated bedsheets as his soft whimpers filled the room.

“Fuck,” he breathed, staring up at the ceiling for several seconds before Vanishing the mess.

It must have been a by-product of visiting the Manor—his childhood home—that was all. He’d been lost in his memories once already today; his body had just decided to take that one step further.

Part of him hoped it wasn’t a sign that his body was getting confused from all this contact with Potter. They were spending so much time together, pretending to fall in love, and it wasn’t as though Draco needed much prompting to find the man fit. He’d already acknowledged his reservations about this whole thing—acknowledged and dismissed them. He didn’t need his body betraying him after all the work he’d put in to move forward in the best way possible.

As his rapid breathing faded, giving way once more to the silence of the night, he allowed himself one small moment to acknowledge that part of him wanted Potter to ask him out for real. It wasn’t a big deal, just a passing thought, but still… it would be nice.

A different memory popped into his mind—one from the party the other day.

_“I’m just saying the truth.”_

He frowned, staring at the shadows from his ceiling lamp and trying to latch onto the thought that kept eluding him. What was it about those words that bothered Draco so much? Potter had just seemed so certain. Not even concerned or upset—just matter-of-fact. He attracted creeps; that was that.

No. That wasn’t what Potter had said. He’d said that Weasley had a biased view—that Weasley would view him in a way that was different to how the rest of the world saw him. Kinder. Rose-tinted.

How did Potter see himself?

It hit Draco then, in that way that only nighttime epiphanies could. He didn’t quite have the words yet, but the feeling was there, rising like an inexorable tide in his chest. A horrible nausea began in his stomach, coursing up through his throat until he thought he might vomit. Potter didn’t see himself how other people saw him. He thought he deserved the stalkers, the weirdos.

_“It’s just a fact.”_

He shook his head, clearing away the maudlin thoughts before they overwhelmed him. It would do no good to stew on it tonight, or any night. But maybe… maybe he’d reached a point where he needed to talk to someone. He was in too deep already, and he badly wanted a second opinion.

Vowing to take action in the morning, he pulled the covers over his head and shut his eyes.

His last thought before he fell asleep was that there was no use hiding from himself any longer. Pansy had tried to get him to admit to it, but he’d only run away like the coward he was. But he couldn’t run anymore; even his own body was betraying him. It was time to accept what he had tried to deny, perhaps for years.

He felt something for Potter, felt something for a man who was deeply, undeniably, troubled. A man who was pretending to love him, and who desperately needed love himself—whether he knew it or not.

Merlin. It had all become so very screwed up.


	3. Chapter 3

“I don’t understand, Draco.”

“Which part?”

Draco stirred his ice cream around in his bowl with the spoon. It was already almost entirely liquid; warm swirls of what had once been chocolate icecream oozed sluggishly against his silverware. If he stopped stirring, he’d have to look up. If he looked up, he’d have to see Blaise’s face. If he saw Blaise’s face, he’d see just how soft and gentle Blaise was being with him, and _then_ Draco would have to admit just how badly he’d fucked up.

“Talk to me. I know you’re keeping something back.” Blaise’s voice was warm, convincing.

Draco wanted to believe it. He wanted to fall into the richness of that voice and trust that it held answers. But it was useless; he was too deep in a mess of his own making, and he didn’t even know why he’d bothered to come here today, except that if he tried to last one more second on his own he was going to lose it.

He threw his spoon into the bowl where it landed with a strident clatter, sending flecks of chocolate liquid onto the table cloth. When he looked up at Blaise, there wasn’t even a hint of chagrin in his expression.

Draco sighed. “It’s not just about the bet,” he confessed.

He’d just spent the last thirty minutes explaining why he and Potter had decided to pretend they were dating. It had only taken so long because, after their display the other week, hiding in dark corners at Pansy’s party, Blaise had been utterly convinced they _were_ dating. And every time Draco had to insist it was fake he felt a twist of misery deep in his gut and had to pause and drink a third of the contents of his wine glass. They’d nearly made it through the bottle and it wasn’t even midday.

“It’s about Potter.”

Draco’s head snapped up. “How did you know?”

Blaise snorted. “It’s always about Potter.”

“Fine, so it’s about Potter. And me. And how I feel about Potter. And about how he feels about life, or something, I don’t quite know yet.”

Blaise’s brows had drawn together in confusion, but he didn’t interrupt. Draco tried to distract himself by staring at the ornate ceiling of Blaise’s second drawing room, but even the gold-flecked paint on the architraves made him think of Potter—Gryffindor gold. More importantly, it made him think of how Potter used to be, and how much that wasn’t the man he was now.

“Potter has changed,” Draco finally said, eyes a little glazed as switched his focus to his hands, twisting his fingers together in a manner that brought him straight back to first year Hogwarts and Professor Quirrell. “He’s not who he once was, and I don’t yet know why, but I do know that it’s killing him.”

It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. Draco couldn’t look up, couldn’t see the expression on Blaise’s face. So he just kept talking.

“When he came to me with this plan to win that drunk bet, I thought it was just a lark. Something stupid to fill in the time, and I’ll admit, it was nice to think of spending a little time with Potter for once. We never really did get to know each other after the war. But now that I’ve spent time with him, I’m seeing things that…”

He swallowed, the words suddenly catching in his throat before he managed to continue.

“I don’t know how his friends haven’t noticed, but Potter’s messed up, Blaise. He’s _really_ messed up. I don’t know how it ties into this ridiculous bet—or even if it does at all—but all I know is that Potter is happiest when he’s with me. He’s happiest when we’re making stupid plans and trying to trick our friends. It’s like it gives him… purpose, I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if it takes him back to Hogwarts, to the kind of pranks the Weasley twins would play. Like, maybe because it’s so light-hearted, he can shove all the rest of it aside. But I don’t know, Blaise. I just don’t know.”

He trailed off and finally looked up, his stomach sinking at the depth of compassion he saw in Blaise’s eyes.

“Even just these last couple of weeks,” he continued quietly, “since you saw us at the party, I’m noticing new things every day. We’re seeing each other more and more—keeping up appearances—and I just… It’s driving me crazy.”

“We all lost something in the war,” Blaise said thoughtfully, dark fingers tapping on the edge of the table as his eyes slid away from Draco to stare into the distance. “It stands to reason that Harry Potter would lose the most. But there’s more to the story, isn’t there?”

Draco gulped and nodded. “I want to keep up this charade, since it’s the only thing that makes him happy.”

“So keep it up then. What’s the harm? You’ll win the bet and then everything will go back to normal.”

“What if it doesn’t? What if he loses all hope? What if this is the only thing keeping him going?”

Blaise shook his head carefully. “You can’t plan for that. You can’t read the future. All you can do is try, and if you think that this is the best thing for him right now, then what’s the harm in keeping it going?”

“Because I think I’m falling in love with him,” Draco’s voice cracked and broke, and suddenly his eyes felt embarrassingly wet, even though no tears were falling.

Blaise’s face crumpled in empathy, and he reached across the table to take Draco’s hand. “Draco.”

He only said that one word, but it was enough. Draco covered his face with his other hand, squeezing his eyes shut against tears that were threatening to fall. He didn’t even know why he was crying.

It wasn’t because he had feelings for Potter—those felt separate from this whole thing. If he could somehow take away everything else about the situation, he rather thought that his feelings might be relatively easy to deal with. He and Potter got along quite well now; there was every chance that Potter would agree to a date. And if he didn’t, well, Draco wouldn’t be the first person to deal with a broken heart.

No, he wasn’t crying over unrequited love. If he was certain of anything, he was certain of that. He was crying because… because something was wrong with Potter, and Draco knew—he just somehow _knew_ —that it wasn’t going to be easy to resolve. When he thought of the way that Potter’s face shifted from superficial happiness to blind rage to that terrifying mask of apathy and back, all in the span of a night, his chest tightened with so much fear he almost felt like he was back in the middle of the war again.

He was crying because he didn’t know what to do. Because he knew that Potter was only ever one argument away from running, from throwing up walls that Draco had no hope of breaking through. The only option Draco had was to keep up their relationship as it was, in the hope that they continued to grow close enough for Draco to be in a position to help. And every second that their relationship grew stronger was going to be an arrow straight through Draco’s heart, as Potter pretended to flirt with him, to go out with him, to love him.

A handful of tears fell, but that was all that Draco allowed. Then he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his suit jacket and straightened up, giving Blaise’s hand one final squeeze before he let go.

“So, what will you do?” Blaise asked, his eyes so full of understanding that Draco nearly cried again.

“The only thing I can do,” Draco said with a wry smile. “My feelings aren’t important right now. I’m going to keep this up as long as it takes to get Potter the help he needs.”

Blaise frowned. “Your feelings are always important,” he said softly. “And you understand that this is going to take a toll on you, right?”

Draco drew back sharply. “You make it sound like Potter’s a burden. He has no idea what affect his moods have on me and the people around him, and he is entirely unaware that I’m trying to help—”

Blaise shook his head and held up his hands, silently pleading for mercy. “I don’t mean that he’s manipulating you. He’s absolutely not. But please understand, Draco, before you continue with this, that if you’re not careful, you could get hurt. Really hurt. That doesn’t mean you don’t do it; it means you have to do it _smart_. Okay, so Potter isn’t ready to see anyone yet—we don’t even know what the problem is—but that doesn’t mean _you_ can’t see someone. Find a professional. Educate yourself. Get some support. Thousands of people have gone through this before you, Draco; there’s simply no sense in trying to do it alone. Don’t rush in there blind, and don’t _ever_ discount the importance of your own feelings. If you do, that’s when it’s going to go downhill. You can’t save someone if you have to destroy yourself to do it.”

Draco stared at Blaise, unable to form coherent thoughts. It was as if the room had suddenly darkened, the sun hidden by clouds and the birds falling silent to allow Blaise’s words the weight they deserved. He felt powerless to turn away from the look on Blaise’s face, the quiet promise in his words. For the first time in weeks, he felt a tiny part of the burden he was carrying float away. Whatever happened, Blaise knew the truth. He could always come to Blaise.

“Thank you.”

The words were barely more than a whisper, but Blaise heard them all the same. He smiled, radiant and warm, and the moment faded away.

Draco sat up, rolling his shoulders and shaking his head a little to clear it. “In other news, Pansy is starting to come around to the idea of us dating. At the moment, she’s angrier at me for, as she puts it, ‘thinking with my cock and my heart instead of my head’ than for trying to win her bet. I think she’s actually forgotten about it.”

Blaise tipped his head back and laughed, the sound rolling around them in the cavernous room. “Well, she has a point.”

Draco picked an imaginary piece of dust off his lapel. “I happen to think my cock and my heart have some pretty good ideas.”

“You would, Draco. You would.”

*

He’d arranged to meet Potter at the bar that night, just the two of them, so he said goodbye to Blaise and went home to shower and get ready.

At least, that was the plan, but he only got as far as the shower before everything just seemed to hit him at once. He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, his hair a ragged, wet mess that flopped forward and nearly reached his eyes. Rivulets of water ran down his cheeks, his chest, and the towel sagged on his hips because he lacked the energy to bother fixing it.

Blaise was right; he needed to be smart about this. He needed to talk to someone—a therapist or something—and start getting things in motion for the time that Potter was ready to take action. He needed to do this for Potter… and for himself.

Somewhere in the last few weeks everything had shifted. Their game hadn’t changed, but the stakes had skyrocketed. Since Potter didn’t seem to even acknowledge that, Draco was playing for both of them.

He ran a comb through his hair, slowly slicking it back and then tousling it until he looked some semblance of put together. He imagined Potter doing the same thing on the other side of London. Imagined the dark bathroom with the flickering light, the way Potter’s eyes would turn haunted whenever he looked in a mirror and thought no one else was watching.

He set the comb down a little harder than necessary and squeezed out a dollop of lotion for his face. The steady glide of his fingers against his skin was a soothing distraction. He could close his eyes and focus on the faint scent of citrus, feel the warmth of the heated lamp above the mirror, pretend everything was fine.

Everything was fine; he would make sure of it. He’d get the help he needed, come to Blaise when he had to, and make sure Potter got through this.

He hitched his towel tighter around his hips and went to get dressed.

*

Potter was waiting for him at the counter, dressed in a rich, navy three-piece suit that made Draco stumble a little when he saw. It was the suit he had admired in the window the other day, the one he’d said Potter should buy.

The thought that Potter had returned and bought it, all because Draco had said he should, filled him with a surge of hope and wonder that should be downright illegal. It was useless getting so caught up on the small details—it was just an act, and Draco needed to remember that.

“Nice suit,” he murmured as he slid in as close to Potter as decency allowed.

He secretly loved the way the other patrons glared at him, silently outraged that _he_ was the one to be so close to Harry Potter, that _he_ was the one to make him smile like that. Draco reached out discreetly, brushing his fingertips along Potter’s wrist in a way that he knew would look like he was trying to be subtle.

Someone would see. It was perfect, and if Draco took rather more pleasure from the touch than he was meant to, it was no one’s business but his own.

Potter’s eyes darkened, sending a wave of heat in Draco’s stomach rushing south. He could see why Blaise had taken so much convincing; Potter was a far better actor than Draco had realised. 

“How did you shape up after the pub last night?” Draco asked, his voice deliberately low and sultry for the benefit of anyone who was listening.

The bartender mopped around them, setting down a fresh glass for Draco and pouring a dram of his usual. Potter bit back a smile, staring down into his glass and avoiding comment on the transparent attempt to eavesdrop.

“Sore,” he finally said with a wicked grin and a subtle wink, just as the bartender was walking away.

Draco had to bite down hard on his tongue to stop from laughing as the bartender stumbled, head whipping around to stare unabashedly at the two of them. He adopted a sympathetic expression.

“Yes, I’m not surprised. You were making quite a display of yourself.”

Potter’s eyes sparkled with mirth. It was just the tiniest bit electrifying, sharing a joke with Potter like this. Even if Draco did desperately wish it were true. He wondered momentarily what the papers would print, if the bartender ran his mouth off.

“You didn’t seem to mind,” Potter replied, taking a long pull from his glass and letting his eyes roam across Draco’s body.

Draco snorted at that, unable to keep the thought of exactly how little he would have minded their imaginary tryst from overwhelming his mind. It would be hilarious if it wasn’t so bloody pathetic.

“Well—” he began, intending to carry their charade as long as he could when a commotion behind them made him turn.

It took him a second to recognise the face, but he soon realised Zach Smith had just stumbled in, drunk as a skunk and with his arms wrapped around the shoulders of two older women. It seemed as though he must have bumped into a family who were on their way through to the bistro. They all stood in the doorway arguing with each other while the mother shielded her children indignantly.

Draco wrinkled his nose but kept watching. He’d never liked Smith. The guy had always been far too ready to kiss the arse of whoever was closest.

A few words of the argument drifted over, but it was incomprehensible—something about the child getting in the way of Smith’s drunken attempt to cast an Accio. After a moment, Draco realised the child was a Squib. He probably hadn’t recognised the magic then and had somehow interrupted.

Draco turned away. It was no use getting involved in the argument. Smith was clearly sloshed, and the kid hadn’t meant any harm.

He opened his mouth to resume their conversation but was struck mute by the fury in Potter’s eyes. For a moment, he expected Potter to get out of his seat and march over there, wand blazing, but he didn’t. His face twisted into something horrible, and then he turned away and slouched against the counter.

Long moments past with no attempt to break the silence. It was clear that Potter was trapped in his own thoughts, lost in some dark emotion. He kept waiting for Potter to break out of it, but he didn’t. Nothing changed, and the rising tide of conversation around them made each passing second seem longer and more brittle.

Draco swallowed. He could let it slide, do what everyone else did and avoid the difficult stuff. Or… he could ask. He could find out a little more about Potter and be one step closer to working out how to help him.

He took a sip of his whiskey, opting for casual even though he was practically vibrating with a sense of anticipation, of urgency.

“What was that about?”

Potter continued to stare into his glass. It was as if he hadn’t even heard Draco, as if he was somewhere far away. Draco didn’t repeat the question; he just waited.

Eventually, Potter turned to him. His eyes were still faintly unseeing, like a sheet of muted glass had dropped between them, but he was closer now. Draco thought that if he reached out, Potter would feel solid beneath his fingertips. He hadn’t thought that before.

“Sorry, what?”

“What was that all about?” Draco waved a hand vaguely in the air.

Potter’s brows drew down, fury flashing across his face for a split second before being replaced by something darker.

“They shouldn’t speak like that to a kid.”

“Pardon?”

Draco felt wrong-footed all of a sudden. He’d thought they were going to argue about their old school mates—that there was some childhood grudge to do with Smith that Potter needed to get off his chest. Maybe an ex-lover. And now they were talking about some kid?

Potter drained his glass and lifted his gaze to glare into the mirror behind the bar. For a moment, his eyes darted to the family where they’d moved into the corner, but he quickly looked away again. Draco tried to catch Potter’s gaze in the mirror, but he was intent upon himself, eyes fierce as he stared down his own reflection. As Draco watched, a strange sort of shift came over Potter’s features—a fierce disgust that burned so strong below Potter’s skin it couldn’t help but leak through to the surface.

It made Draco shiver, lines of fear running down his spine.

When Potter spoke again, his voice was cold. “Did you hear them? What they said to him?”

“No.”

“They said he was a freak.”

Draco shrugged. “And?”

Potter’s head whipped around, his eyes flashing. “You think that’s okay to say to a kid, do you? Think that’s appropriate?”

“Of course not,” Draco snapped back. “But some parents are monsters who should be tarred and feathered at the very least; I don’t see why it’s made you withdraw into yourself like this. And I don’t understand why the Gryffindor hero didn’t go up to them and verbally rip their heads off.”

“Because there’s no fucking point.” Potter’s voice sounded strange as he hissed the words—harsh and uneven. “It’s not going to make them stop.”

Draco’s stomach sank. He was getting close to something, and with each passing second all he wanted to do was run. But he’d come this far.

“I’m fairly certain you faced a hurdle or two when you took down Lord Voldemort,” Draco drawled, searching for that cutting tone that would rile Potter just enough to make him lash out rather than run. “It didn’t stop you then. What’s the difference now?”

“Maybe I’m sick of fighting losing battles.”

Draco couldn’t help the incredulous expression on his face. “You _won_! What in Merlin’s fucking name are you talking about, losing battles? You win! You always win! That’s your thing, Potter. What the hell is going on?”

They were leaning so close together, Draco could feel Potter’s breath rasping across his skin with each ragged exhalation. Potter’s face twisted into something pained, something furious.

“What’s going on?” He laughed, cold and bitter and awful. “What’s going on is that I’ve never fucking won anything in my life, and you’re somehow all so fooled into thinking I’m a _hero_ that you can’t see what I really am.”

The words were like ice straight down Draco’s back, but Potter wasn’t finished.

“Do you know how I grew up, Malfoy? Do you know how the _boy hero_ was raised?” He jabbed a finger towards the family in the corner, though he didn’t turn away from Draco. “Like that. Do you know what it’s like, to be called a freak when you let slip a little accidental magic? Do you know how fucking terrifying it is to think that maybe, maybe _you are_. Because things keep happening to you. Things you can’t control, and all you know is _they hate you for it_. God, how they hate you. And sure, you find out that magic exists, and that’s wonderful. It’s amazing. But that doesn’t make it go away because—”

Potter broke off, eyes wide and a little glassy. He closed them and swallowed, taking a slow, measured breath. Draco’s stomach was churning, the alcohol he’d already drunk heavy like stone, and all he could taste was bile.

Potter opened his eyes, and the storm of emotions were gone, leaving a horrible, blank emptiness in their wake. He drained his glass in a single gulp and wiped his mouth.

“And I didn’t win the war, Malfoy. I died.” He laughed again, but it wasn’t like before. It sounded normal, the way he did when they were laughing together with Pansy and Granger and Weasley. Somehow, that was far, far worse. “I died, and it was the biggest accomplishment of my entire life.”

Then, he dropped a few Galleons on the table and walked away.

Draco wasn’t sure how long he stayed at the counter, staring at the small pool of liquid around his coaster. He didn’t remember spilling it. Although, now that he was looking, he could see that his hands were shaking. He steadied them against the wood, pressing his fingertips against the lacquered surface and trying to remember how to breathe normally.

Trauma. Potter had trauma.

He knew a little about that. The word had been thrown in his face by a few Mind Healers over the years with varying degrees of tact. Somewhere, between specialists who cost more than a new wing for the Manor and potions that were illegal in some countries, he’d found a way to get by. It wasn’t the best way, and the journey was long, but he had his coping techniques and the Floo address for several professionals when it became too much to bear.

Potter didn’t sound like he was even aware it was trauma. He sounded like he thought it was fact. Like he still believed the vicious words that had been said to him all those years ago. That explained why Granger wasn’t much help to him; this was just the Potter she’d known all along. A little rough around the edges, a little over-emotional, but competent and strong in spite of it all. He’d been like this since they were children; Draco didn’t blame Granger for being unable to see it with fresh eyes.

Draco had thought that whatever was going on with Potter was to do with the war, but this had started a long, long time before that. Draco didn’t even know where to begin.

As he sat there, goosebumps tingling along his forearms from the adrenaline that still coursed through him, he felt the unfamiliar swell of a new emotion. His thoughts went back to how Potter had been before the family walked past. Potter probably hadn’t noticed, but half the guests in the bar had their eyes on him, and it wasn’t because he was the Boy Who Lived.

Potter exuded an aura of fearlessness, of strength. He always had. Tonight—like many other nights—Draco had been caught by the twinkle in his eyes, the unexpected wit of his humor. He had been enraptured, dazed, falling with no end in sight. And now, to discover that this lurked beneath the surface…

The unnamed feeling grew, bursting within his chest. He’d always secretly admired Potter, respected him for what he’d done for the world, but, Merlin…

The words he’d said to Blaise, the uncertain confession… perhaps it wasn’t so far from the truth.

He shook his head, clearing away the thoughts that didn’t have a place right now. He would deal with them later—much, much later. Possibly never.

With a final glare at the family in the corner, he drained the rest of his glass and left.

*

He didn’t see Potter for about a week after that. Occasionally, they’d pass each other in the corridors at the Ministry, and there was an aborted mid-week lunch attempt with the five of them, but everyone was simply too busy to do anything more than a quick greeting.

For the most part, Potter didn’t even acknowledge their argument. There had been a small moment there where Draco thought he might be getting the cold shoulder, but then Granger had bumped into them and received the same treatment. He decided then that it must simply be that Potter’s bad mood had not yet evaporated.

Sure enough, by the time pub night rolled around, it was as if nothing had changed. Draco tried to act the same, but it was hard. How could he act like everything was the same when he didn’t even feel like the same person? He wondered if anyone else knew what Potter had gone through as a child. Did they know it had never truly left him?

“Draco, are you planning on joining us at all tonight? Or would you rather brood in silence?”

Draco looked up to see Pansy watching him shrewdly. He supposed he had been rather absent.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “What did I miss?”

“Oh, nothing much.” Pansy waved her hand in the air. “Just an explosion or two and the near destruction of the Granger-Weasley partnership.”

“What?!” He sat up straight then, looking around in alarm.

There didn’t appear to be anything out of order in his surroundings. The polished wood of the table was unsinged and the passing waiters seemed entirely unruffled as they greeted new customers. Both Weasley and Granger were giving each other secret smiles over the top of their glasses, blissfully unaware of the rest of the pub.

He turned back to see Pansy giggling. He sighed, selected a peanut from the bowl in front of Potter, and threw it at her.

“That wasn’t nice.”

“You deserved it. I’d been saying your name for five minutes.”

“In fairness to Pansy,” Potter murmured to him, a slight smile on his face as he ducked his head closer to Draco’s for him to hear. “Ron accidentally set his glass on fire, then he accidentally set Hermione’s glass on fire, and then Hermione threatened to dump him if he didn’t get her a new drink. So, technically, it was true.”

“Technicalities should be taken out the back and shot,” Draco grumbled.

Pansy gave a fake gasp and fluttered her hand over her chest. “How very un-Slytherin of you. Clearly, you’ve been spending too much time with this Gryffindor lunkhead.”

For the first time since they’d begun their bet, there was no hint of suspicion beneath Pansy’s words. Their performance was both subtle and believable enough that Pansy no longer questioned it. For some reason, the thought made Draco’s stomach sink.

Potter laughed and reached out to grab a handful of peanuts, clearly unbothered by the implication.

“Speaking of,” he said, the words muffled as he was still halfway through chewing, “Could I get your help with something, Malfoy?”

Draco blinked in surprise. They hadn’t discussed anything; as far as he knew, they were letting recent events settle in everyone’s minds before they tried anything new.

“With what?”

“Aah, there’s my Slytherin boy.” Pansy reached across the table to pat Draco’s hand affectionately. “I knew you hadn’t gone far.”

Then she turned to Hermione, laughing at something she’d said and ignoring the two of them entirely.

Potter didn’t seem fussed at all that he no longer had an audience. Perhaps this wasn’t for show. He grinned at Draco.

“Have to know what you’re agreeing to first, right?” He didn’t look offended; his eyes were crinkled with amusement.

“Of course.”

Potter lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It’s kind of silly.”

Something painful stuttered in Draco’s chest; he ignored it. “Go on.”

“You got me thinking, when we were working on the security spells for your house.”

“Yes?”

“What if there was a way that the Ministry could provide basic protection spells for at-risk wizarding families?”

Draco blinked at him in confusion. “At-risk?”

“Yeah, you know, houses in areas that have been targeted a lot. High crime areas.” He cleared his throat. “Families with Squibs. Half-bloods in pure-blood districts.”

Draco didn’t know. He’d never looked at crime stats—never even _thought_ about crime stats. But what Potter was saying made an awful sort of sense.

“It’s an excellent idea.” The warmth in his own tone just about disgusted him, if he wasn’t already resigned to what Potter was turning him into.

Potter lifted his head up abruptly, eyes bright with surprise and pleasure. “You think so?”

“I do. But what do I have to do with it?”

“You’re smart,” Potter said sincerely. “And you understand finance.”

That was an understatement—he was a financial advisor.

“True on both accounts,” he said dryly.

Potter smirked. “So I thought you could help me put together a funding proposal. The Ministry will never approve it if it doesn’t fit their budget.”

Draco’s mind was already turning over figures, running analysis against existing budgets that he’d worked on during the last financial year. He could make this work. If he put enough effort in, accounting for potential investments from potioneers and businesses that traded in security and illusions, he was fairly certain he could even make it turn a profit.

“I think I have a few ideas.”

Potter’s answering smile warmed him far more than the Firewhisky that already thrummed in his veins.

“How about tonight?”

The words were innocent, but something about the way Potter’s lips looked as he said them, the way his eyes were bright with ambition, with justice, made Draco’s knees weak. If only they meant something different.

“Just say the word.”

Draco wasn’t sure how the rest of the night passed; he was powerless to focus on it. Drinks were set in front of him, laughter surrounded him, conversations ebbed and flowed, but it was as if every second was transient, lacking connection with the seconds before and after. The only constant was Potter, and Draco was drowning in him.

Nothing had changed, but there was an undercurrent to every word, every action, that made Draco aware of the layers he’d never known existed. A sharp smile when Ron mentioned his childhood suddenly had new meaning. When Granger asked what everyone’s plans were for the upcoming War Memorial Service and Potter fell silent, letting the wave of chatter from Weasley and Pansy take over, Draco thought he might be beginning to understand why.

Draco’s mind returned to the night when Pansy had made her ridiculous bet. He remembered thinking how oddly sober Potter had seemed, even with all they had been drinking. He watched Potter closely now and realised that the drinks were disappearing far, far slower than he had ever realised. For every three drinks that the others consumed, Potter only had one, and he was constantly on alert. Draco catalogued the subtle twitches, the glances—the many ways that Potter responded to the _constant_ stream of noise around them, all while never turning his attention away from their little group.

Draco stopped drinking. He felt sick with the realisation that he had never seen it, and then the sickness—the guilt—evaporated as the twisted burn of rage took its place. Perhaps he had never noticed, but Potter’s friends should have. They should have understood it; how could it be that _Draco Malfoy_ was the one to come along and attempt to pick up the pieces?

He nearly said something. Nearly tore into the two of them, sitting so innocently across the table from him, but he held back. If he hadn’t, he would have ruined not only the friendships at the table, but the trust that he and Potter were slowly building—and that was too dear a price to pay, even for the satisfaction of knowing he was _right_.

Eventually, the sound of the bar began to die, vibrant chatter being replaced by sleepy conversation and wide yawns. Draco thought Potter must have forgotten about their plans, but then their eyes met and Potter lifted his eyebrows in question.

“Still up for a late-night planning session?”

Draco’s tiredness disappeared, replaced by a burning need to get Potter alone, to hear his voice where there were no other distractions, to see all the many emotions he wore openly on his face when he stopped worrying about who was watching.

“Lead the way.”

They bid goodnight to the others and Flooed back to Potter’s apartment. At first, Draco thought they must have gone to the wrong place, it was so dark and cold. But when Potter turned on the lights, Draco recognised the faces in the picture frames that sat on the mantelpiece, and he knew they were home. The photos were the only decoration in the living room, and the furniture was sparse at best.

“Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?”

“Tea, please.”

“Milk, two sugars?”

Draco’s eyebrows lifted and he couldn’t help but smile. “Someone’s being paying attention.”

Potter grinned. “Don’t think I ever really stopped, when it comes to you.”

Something twisted and clenched in Draco’s chest, but he shoved it far, far down.

Potter’s kitchen was just as bare as his living room. Worn cupboards lined the walls, their white paint coated in a thin layer of dust—testimony to just how little Potter opened them. Nonetheless, the mugs he placed on the bench were clean, and his tea was the good kind, so Draco supposed the situation could be worse.

The thought thrummed through him, bitter and dark. Things could always be worse; it had no bearing on the intolerability of the present.

He settled himself on one side of the breakfast counter, palms wrapped around the warmth of his mug. Potter sat on the other side with a mug of steaming coffee in front of him.

“Before we get stuck into it,” Draco said, “do we need to discuss anything about the bet?”

Potter lifted his eyebrows. “The bet? I don’t think so. Unless you’re not happy with the progress?” He took a sip from his mug. “I figured it was going great, and we just need to keep at it as planned.”

Draco nodded slowly. “Just making sure you were still keen. It’s been weeks; you might have become bored.” He grinned, trying to take the edge off his words, making sure he didn’t reveal just how much it meant to him that he maintain this closeness to Potter right now.

“Definitely not,” Potter said, a bright smile stretching across his face. Then he cleared his throat, looking momentarily embarrassed. “I mean, I still want to get one over them all, you know?”

Draco bit down on a triumphant smile—Potter was still enjoying his company, even if he wouldn’t admit it. “Of course.”

Potter relaxed. “Right. Then, that’s that, yeah?”

“Absolutely,” Draco said smoothly.

Silence filtered around them as they sat comfortably together and drank.

“So, how do we do this?” Potter asked. “Do you want to hear what I need so that you can tell me how much it will cost? Or do you want to just list off the ways it won’t work before we get started?”

His smile was soft with the faintest hint of self-deprecation. It made Draco’s gut twist.

“Why are you so certain it won’t work? We haven’t even begun.”

Potter lifted one shoulder in a shrug—an echo of the same moment earlier in the night. Except, now it was different, a little more exposed, a little less for show. Draco wondered where all the confidence he’d always associated with Potter had gone, because he knew now that it had.

“I mentioned something similar to Robards, once. Not the security spells, but I wanted to provide a detail for a family on their first journey to Hogwarts. Nothing too flash—just an Auror accompaniment to Platform 9 ¾.  Their son had been threatened by pure-bloods in the neighborhood for years, and the mother was terrified of sending him off on his own.” His eyes hardened. “Robards went on for a full thirty minutes about how it wasn’t the Ministry’s place to interfere with schoolyard bullying. He kept saying how it wasn’t sending the right message and that it was a waste of funding. I tried to explain that it had nothing to do with the kids—it was about sending a message to the parents, so that they knew the Ministry wasn’t turning a blind eye to old prejudices. But he didn’t get it.”

Potter fell quiet abruptly, and Draco didn’t know what to say. There was a naivety to what Potter was planning but only in execution—the basis was strong, real. The fact that Robards hadn’t bothered to parse through Potter’s ignorance for procedure to understand what it might achieve was pathetic. Not that Draco was surprised.

But Potter had been beaten down on this for a long time—years. Draco needed to choose his words carefully.

“Defeating Lord Voldemort was never going to be enough.” The words dragged out of him. They were thoughts he’d long mulled over, but never closely examined since, in many ways, they cut too close to home. “To affect real change, you need to dismantle the systems that allowed him to gain power.”

Potter stared at him, and Draco couldn’t help the bitter smile he returned.

“When you grow up beneath my father’s thumb, Potter, you learn a thing or two about how to manipulate people. The question that remains is how you choose to equate that possibility with your own morality.”

“Are you talking about manipulating the Ministry? Or society?” Potter was frowning.

Draco chuckled. “Potter, _you_ are talking about manipulating society.” He raised a hand against Potter’s objections. “Manipulation is a dirty word, but it doesn’t have to be. You’re not lying. You’re not deceiving. You are simply considering what you want the public to see and how that might affect how you want the public to act. You want them to understand the consequences of their prejudice—yes? That’s why you wanted to accompany that family to the station. You want them to understand that the Ministry will not stand for the sorts of attitudes that led to the rise of a Dark Lord, and on a deeper level—a level you don’t entirely understand yet because it’s not a way of thinking you’re familiar with—you want them to be faced with the direct impact of those prejudices.

“It isn’t enough for you to rely on the law to influence people’s behavior. You want them to understand what their prejudice does. You want them to see that there is a face to the half-blood child they so despise—a tear-stricken, terrified face that deserves _none_ of the daily tragedies he must endure. You want to change people’s way of thinking, and every time you think of a way to do it, your superiors tell you it’s a waste of Ministry resources.”

Potter gaped at Draco. Whatever protest he’d been going to make had disappeared, and his face was open instead with a fierce sort of hope that made Draco’s breath catch in his throat.

“What do you suggest?” Potter finally asked, leaning forward on the counter as if he didn’t want to miss a single thing Draco said, a single movement he made.

Draco smiled. “Do you have some parchment? I have a few ideas.”

Their tea grew cold as they made plans, throwing ideas back and forth with increasing enthusiasm. It made Draco think of late nights spent in the Slytherin common room making plans and plotting ridiculous schemes with his friends. Except, none of his friends then had really given the task the same enthusiasm as Draco always did. They hadn’t cared as much as Draco had, and it was only now, years later, that Draco was truly aware of it.

He studied the way Potter’s face was lit with a fervor, the way Potter scanned the notes on the parchment intently, looking for connections and making plans. It was like watching the sun rise, spreading light and wonder as far as the eye can see. His breath caught in his throat and a painful ache started up deep in his chest. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Potter was in so much pain, and it wasn’t fair that Draco had to watch in silence.

Potter must have felt him looking because he looked up at Draco and smiled for a moment before turning back to the parchment. It was a distracted, sleepy little smile that Draco had never seen on him before—real in a way that Draco rarely experienced with Potter.

Draco’s heart stuttered in his chest. Maybe there was another path. Maybe what they were building had been real after all and they could turn it into something solid, something with the power to rescue Potter without destroying Draco in the process.

“What if we could make this work?” The words were out before he could take them back.

Potter looked up, eyes slightly unfocused as he struggled to put aside the work he was concentrating on. Then, they sharpened, and he sat up straight.

“Make what work?” He asked cautiously, removing any doubt in Draco’s mind that he could backtrack and play this off as something else.

Potter knew exactly what he meant.

“We get along well,” Draco said slowly. “I…” He didn’t want to scare Potter away. It was _imperative_ that he didn’t scare Potter away, and Potter was looking well spooked. “I think you’re fit, and it’s clear we make a good team.” He waved a hand at the parchment in front of them. “What if we tried this for real?”

His heart thumped in his chest, making him feel light-headed. He couldn’t believe he was actually asking this, saying the words out loud.

After several seconds of tense silence, Potter relaxed. Somehow, Draco had said the right thing.

“I thought you were going to say you were in love with me,” Potter said with a laugh.

There was something off about the way he said it, about the bitter twist of humor to the words, but Draco was too strung out on his own stupidity to work out what it was.

“Oh?” Draco breathed, going for light-hearted but coming out strangled to his own ears.

“Yeah.” Potter laughed again, more relaxed this time. “Fucking barmy, right? You’re the last person I’d ever expect to get infatuated with me. You scared the crap out of me for a second there.”

Somewhere through the haze of anxiety, Draco acknowledged that Potter equated love with infatuation. He filed it away for later and forced himself to laugh.

“No, well.” He took a sip from his cold tea for something to do. “It was just a thought. But I’m not your type, I take it?”

Potter’s eyes widened, and Draco was momentarily gratified to see the moment Potter realised he should take this seriously.

“It’s not that.” He propped his elbows on the counter, green eyes fixed to Draco’s. “I’m just not the dating type. I thought that was obvious. I tried it a bit… after Ginny. But I mean, you’ve seen my exes.” He laughed. “It just doesn’t work out. I don’t think that kind of thing is meant for me.”

The room felt colder than normal, but Draco engaged every ounce of self-control to make sure his sudden fear didn’t show. He curved his lips into a smile, though he was sure it must look all wrong.

Potter’s brows flickered into a half-frown, just for a second, but then understanding dawned on his face.

“Unless,” he said slowly. “That’s not quite what you meant?”

It took Draco a few seconds, but when he finally managed to recognise the heat in Potter’s eyes for what it was, his blood ran cold.

He cleared his throat, trying to think how to turn Potter down without rejecting him. But even as the idea of going ahead chilled him, something inside began to sing, calling out to Potter, begging him to come closer because _this was his chance_. And he might not get another one.

“I…” he began, searching for the words to stop this before it began, and then trailed off, feeling every inch the fucking coward he was.

Potter raise his eyebrows in question, and it was like the very air of the room had changed. It was tinged with that same kind of visceral awareness that came right before a storm, like the earth was holding its breath. Draco carefully exhaled, knowing that the end was already inevitable. Even if he could return to the start and look for the signs, he wouldn’t stop this.

His abdomen tightened with heat, delicious waves of desire spreading lazily through his body. His cock was already stirring at the thought of what he could do with Potter, of what Potter could do with him.

“We don’t have to,” Potter said, his voice several notes lower than normal. “If you don’t like casual sex, just say the word and I’ll go back to work.”

Draco liked casual sex—loved it. But he wanted more.

The question was: did he want it enough to turn this down? Were his principles too high? Was his self-respect so strong that he would refuse a night of comfort in Potter’s arms—willing, enthusiastic, _pleasurable_ comfort?

Who was he fucking kidding.

“Don’t go back to work.” His voice cracked a little, desire shining through despite how desperately he tried not to lay his cards on the table.

Potter’s eyes widened just a fraction, and then he set the quill down on the countertop. Draco’s cock already pressed against the front of his jeans, though his mind still hadn’t quite caught up to his body. His thoughts were racing, screaming at him that this was a bad idea, that he would regret it later. Not in the morning—god, no—not even weeks down the track, but months later when everything fell to absolute shit and he realised that the sex had just complicated an already messy, messy situation.

But that was it, wasn’t it? There was no easy way out of this one. Draco was fucked no matter what he did, because _Merlin_ he was falling hard. No matter what distance he kept between the two of them, he was going to end up with a broken heart, so why not give himself this? Why not give himself one night?

Potter was watching him, eyes dark and full of heat. His shirt was riding low, the fabric stretching over his chest and dipping below his collar. In the space between the shadow of his neck and his collarbone, Draco could see Potter’s pulse thudding under his skin. He ached to press his tongue there, to taste the sweat that dipped into the hollow of Potter’s throat.

He might not ever know Potter’s love, but Draco could love him tonight. He could show him how it felt to be worshipped not for the pieces of a destiny you’d followed but for who you _were_.

He might not ever get this chance again, and it wouldn’t hurt Potter to take it, it would only hurt Draco. Draco was used to pain. What was a little more if it came with this?

Draco hadn’t even realised he was standing, walking around the table, until he came to a halt just before Potter’s chair. Potter leaned back, legs spreading just a little further, and looked up to meet Draco’s eyes.

It wasn’t the fast, urgent prelude that Draco was used to when he took men home from the bar. The heat simmered below Draco’s skin, begging for an outlet, but he refused to rush. He wanted to savor this, to capture every moment in his memory. Potter’s eyes were heavy-lidded now, and it wasn’t just with desire. They were both a little tired, a little lethargic in a way that made Draco _ache_ with the need to push Potter down onto the bed and explore him with unhurried ease. He wanted to take Potter apart until Potter’s eyes were closed and he’d sunk back into the mattress with the blissful headiness of sex that was poised on the edge of sleep.

“How do you like it?” Draco asked, unable to keep from reaching out and running a hand through Potter’s hair, caressing the thick strands. “A little rough? Slow? Kinky? Or are you a vanilla sort of man?”

Potter’s eyes closed and he hummed in pleasure. “I’m flexible.” His voice was already rough with desire.

Draco couldn’t help but notice the familiarity of their actions, and it hit him with an ache so hard he nearly gasped. He’d barely even touched Potter before, but it was so easy. So easy to reach out and caress him, so easy to ask what he wanted—to _give him_ what he wanted. Draco closed his eyes against the pain of it and counted to three.

Even in the darkness, his fingers kept moving, caressing Potter’s face, his jaw. When Draco opened his eyes, he was struck by the fierce longing he saw on Potter’s face, the white-knuckled grip of Potter’s hands against his jeans.

“How do you like it?” Potter repeated Draco’s question back to him, gaze steady as he watched Draco’s reaction.

“Intense,” Draco breathed, though he wasn’t entirely sure if he was answering the question or commenting on the green eyes currently holding him captive.

Potter grinned, lips slowly curving upwards. “Good choice.”

Then he stood, arms coming to wrap around Draco’s waist and draw him closer. There was a moment where they simply stood and watched each other. Draco’s fingers had drawn down to cup Potter’s jaw, and every place where they touched burned with heat. Draco bent down, closing the distance between them, and pressed their lips together. He wondered if Potter could feel the thudding of his heart between their mouths, if his pulse really was bursting through every millimeter of skin. It certainly felt like it.

He counted the seconds, waiting for Potter to draw away in alarm—for the weight of Draco’s emotions to ruin everything—but it didn’t happen. Instead, Potter groaned and melted into him, his lips parting and his tongue coaxing Draco deeper into the kiss. Draco made an embarrassing sound and then tried to cover it by changing the kiss into something urgent and messy.

But Potter didn’t let him. He met the feverish desire of Draco’s lips with slow, deep kisses, pulling Draco down into the slow, intoxicating swell of emotion he was trying to avoid. With a whimper, he stopped trying to escape it and just gave in. Slowly, Potter stepped him backward, leading him from the kitchen to the bedroom across the hall.

Normally, Draco was the kind of person who tore clothing off in seconds. He loved the sheer beauty of the naked body. Man, woman, anywhere along the gender scale—he loved to admire the unique differences of the human form. The valleys and peaks, the beauty of shadows on skin, of sheets pooling around limbs. He loved it all. But tonight, he was so consumed by touch that he couldn’t begin to think of what he might see if he opened his eyes.

But he’d said he would worship Potter—all of him. So he stepped back and ran his eyes over Potter’s figure, relishing the hitch of breath he received in return, the strange hint of shyness. He put aside his feelings for the night and focused on the man before him.

Potter’s shirt had already ridden up, exposing the fine hairs that trailed down his belly and below his waistband. Draco peeled the shirt over Potter’s head and threw it behind them where it landed in shadow by the bed. His jeans quickly followed, landing on the crumpled pile of fabric and leaving Draco with the breathtaking vision of Potter’s skin bathed in moonlight.

Potter laughed at the expression on Draco’s face and then reached for him, tugging his clothing away with eager hands and replacing it with his lips, his tongue, his teeth. They fell back onto the bed, naked except for their socks which had been too far away to waste time reaching for. Draco’s heart still hadn’t slowed, and he could feel a flush rising on his chest. It was almost embarrassing; they’d barely even started. He tried to hide it by pushing Potter down and pinning his wrists to the bed, writhing against him.

Between the slickness of precum and the smoothness of their skin pressed together, Draco was becoming quickly incoherent as he thrust into the hollow of Potter’s hip. He reached between them, leaving one of Potter’s hands free, and took them both in hand. Potter twisted his hand back to grip the headboard and ground upward.

If they kept going like this, it was going to be over too quickly. Draco was more than up for multiple rounds, but he wanted to draw this out—to keep Potter on the edge as long as possible. He pushed backwards and let his hands fall to the top of Potter’s knees, resting them there as he slid down and settled himself between Potter’s thighs.

With his head tipped back, still grasping the headboard, Potter moaned. He was making a clear effort to stay still, to keep from thrusting his cock up to meet Draco’s mouth; Draco smirked and wondered how long he’d remain still when he realised what Draco actually had planned.

He trailed his hands lower, running his fingers along the juncture of Potter’s thighs and pushing gently until Potter was perfectly exposed. He felt the moment the atmosphere changed, the moment Potter realised what was happening. A faint whimper fell from his mouth and his legs opened wider still, knees falling back towards his chest and outwards while his ankles rested on the bed.

He hadn’t been lying; he really _was_ flexible.

Draco muttered a cleaning charm, taking a moment to enjoy the soft scent of mint that suddenly surrounded them, mixing with the heady aroma of Potter’s sweat-slicked skin and their combined arousal. Then he lowered his mouth and traced a long line along Potter’s crease with his tongue.

Potter bucked beneath him, surging forward to meet Draco’s lips. Draco braced his hands against Potter’s inner thigh and began to set a steady rhythm, laving the soft skin with his tongue again and again while Potter writhed beneath him. The sounds he was making had turned from rough and sensual to downright filthy—whines mixing with muffled curses as Potter turned his head and bit down on the pillow.

Draco grinned, speeding up a little and pressing deeper, firmer, until Potter gave up attempting to keep quiet and just gave over to the sensations Draco was giving him. Light traces around the hole made Potter squirm, pressing forward until he was practically fucking himself on Draco’s tongue, while long, flat swipes made him fall back, loose, onto the sheets. His legs went slack, all the tension draining away, and his constant litany of swearing turned into something more languid—soft moans that vibrated through his whole body and made Draco’s cock jump.

He drew back and added a finger, pressing inside and twisting gently until he landed on the place that made Potter’s face twist into desperation, nonsensical pleas falling from his lips.

“Do you want another?” Draco probed gently with a second finger, and Potter nodded eagerly.

Draco dropped back down and mouthed gently at the tip of Potter’s cock, tracing the head with his tongue and lips, coaxing Potter to thrust upward into his waiting heat. It was intoxicating. He was almost light-headed with disbelief, consumed by the force of his desire and the heady power he felt in bringing pleasure to someone he cared for. If he could, Draco would do this for hours just to see the expression of awe on Potter’s face, just for the sweet reward of his pleas.

He could feel Potter getting closer, feel the soft twitches of his cock in Draco’s mouth as it grew impossibly harder, seconds away from the edge. Draco drew his lips away, licking a final stripe up the length of it, and traded his thrusting fingers below for his tongue again. He gripped Potter’s cock in his hand, circling it lightly and sliding his hand in a steady rhythm in time with his tongue.

Potter moaned, pressing forward into Draco’s mouth, into the lips that caressed him, licking him over and over until he was begging for something more.

“Please,” he moaned. “Harder.”

Draco slid his lips up Potter’s thigh and bit down, grinning against his skin. “Like it rough, do you? You should have said.”

“I’m so close.” His chest was flushed a beautiful red that rose high up on his cheeks, and his hands still gripped the headboard obediently, straining against the bars.

“Do you want my mouth on your cock?” Draco asked with a sly smile, pumping his hand slowly up and down Potter’s length. “Or on your arse?”

Potter’s eyes fluttered closed on a gasp, the whispered words lost in his uncontrollable pleasure.

Draco bit his thigh again. “I didn’t catch that.”

“Arse. Please. Please, Draco.”

Draco groaned against Potter’s skin and then dropped back down again. This time, he held nothing back, licking and pressing his tongue as deep as he could while Potter thrust up into his waiting fist. He felt Potter grip his hair in warning, and then his cock jumped, warm ropes of come sliding over Draco’s fingers as Potter howled into the pillow.

Draco was only seconds away from coming, the softness of Potter’s sheets having done wonders for the slow thrust of his hips into the mattress. He was intending to wait, to let Potter enjoy his orgasm, but a hand immediately gripped his and pulled him up higher, maneuvering him until he was sitting over Potter’s face and his cock was sliding into the waiting heat of a mouth. He gasped, forehead falling against the wall with a soft _thunk_ as Potter gripped his arse and guided him to start thrusting, fucking Potter’s mouth in steady strokes.

Potter looked up at him, green eyes piercing and dark with lust, and Draco knew he was gone. He pressed his face into the wall and shut his eyes, gripping the headboard so tightly he could feel the blood draining away from his knuckles. It was barely enough distraction to keep his movements to a minimum, to keep from letting go and just fucking Potter’s face, hard and rough, like he seemed to want it.

It was over in seconds. Never one to shoot down anyone’s throat without warning, Draco tried to pull back, but strong, insistent fingers held him there. And when he spilled over the edge, cock pulsing in the wet heat of Potter’s mouth, Potter moaned with pleasure.

Finally, they fell apart and Draco dropped down on the bed while Potter leaned over to grab a handful of tissues and spit into them.

“Fuck,” Potter breathed when he lay back beside Draco, a cleaning charm fresh in both their mouths.

“Fuck,” Draco agreed, soft and a little wistful.

Potter looked over at him, eyes and face already soft with sleep. “You don’t have to go home, obviously. Just stay here. No sense in running out the door; we’re friends.”

Draco blinked at him. He hadn’t even thought about afterwards. Hell, he’d barely even caught up to the present. But if he’d had to think about it, it wouldn’t have even occurred to him that Potter might kick him out.

The words “we’re friends” echoed around in his mind, and a shiver ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the chill in the air. He shoved it aside; he’d known what was getting into from the start.

“Of course,” he said lightly.

“Do you mind which side you sleep on?” Potter asked with a yawn, already fluffing up the pillow. “I usually take this side, but it doesn’t worry me.”

“No…” Draco stared ahead, eyes unfocused. “No, it doesn’t bother me.”

There was no reply. When Draco looked over, Potter was already asleep.

*

They spent two weeks working on Potter’s proposal to Robards. It wasn’t enough to simply protect at-risk families, not if they wanted to achieve Potter’s ultimate aim. By protecting them, they would be singling them out for special treatment. Draco didn’t have to think particularly hard to know how well that knowledge would be received by pure-blood families who believed they were entitled to something more.

Eventually, Draco had not only managed to tweak a proposal that satisfied the Ministry’s budget by partnering with the Potion Mastery apprenticeships and using their projects as to supply the program, but he’d managed to think of a way sell it, too.

“You want to what now?” Potter stared at him, green eyes wide and guileless.

There was a Slytherin in there somewhere; Draco just had to find it.

“Pure-bloods won’t let the program through if they believe it’s giving preferential treatment to Muggle-borns and half-bloods,” Draco reminded him patiently.

“But it is.”

He bit back a groan. “Which is precisely why it _can’t._ Come on, Potter, think about it for half a second. While there may be a very valid need to single this group out, you can’t say that there aren't also pure-blood families in need of extra protection, too. Just look at the Weasleys.”

Potter pulled a face and nodded, conceding the point. 

“By focusing on Muggle-borns and half-blood families, you’re inadvertently subjecting pure-bloods to the same stereotyped bias that you’re trying to avoid.” He held up a hand to stop Potter’s objections. “I _know_ that statistics show these families to be at a far greater risk, and I know that you’ve used every appropriate method to ensure selection of entry to the program is based on merit rather than sweeping generalisations. But if you want to introduce a program based on a system of equity, you must _base it on a system of equity._ Otherwise your credibility is lost before you begin.”

“And how do we do that?” Potter asked, his face twisted into a slightly mulish expression.

“A rigid application program,” Draco said, sliding a piece of parchment across the table for Potter to assess.

Potter frowned at the parchment, eyes scanning the lines quickly. He read it through, then went back to the top and read it again.

“But this is just going to filter all the Muggle-borns and half-bloods through anyway,” he said, tone now confused instead of angry. “Look at these questions.” He slid the parchment back and pointed. “ _Have you or your family felt unsafe going out in public in the last six months? Do you feel unequipped in magic ability to protect yourself in the event of a magical attack?_ Most of those are just going to filter through the Muggle-borns and half-bloods that we’re trying to reach. It’s just a more long-winded way of doing it.”

“Take a second, Potter. Take a really long second.”

Potter blinked at him, then looked back at the paper. “Oh.”

“I’m not trying to change your proposal,” Draco said gently. “I’m trying to sell it. And, truthfully, it’s better this way. Now, you’ll catch the wizarding families who didn’t meet your initial criteria but still need the help you’re offering. Families with disabilities and illness. Trust me; they exist.”

Draco had spent a long time re-evaluating his internal prejudices. Years. You didn’t go through a process like that and come out the other side without noticing a thing or two about the societal cracks you’d been stepping over.

“The key is to make sure that the group you’re trying to help don’t suffer for the inclusion,” he continued, “because you’re right—those crime statistics need to be addressed. We just need to sell it right so that the marginalized group is given preferential treatment _without_ unfair bias. Preference, not bias. Make sense?”

Potter looked at him like his head was spinning. Draco thought about taking pity on him, but pity wasn’t Draco’s style. He slid another piece of parchment across the table.

“To that end, we need to consider the pushback once pure-blood families read between the lines and see that they’re unlikely to gain assistance from the program if they’re magically capable of providing the security the program provides.”

Potter’s face twisted into a glare. “But they don’t _need_ the assistance.”

“Come on, Potter, you’re smarter than this,” Draco snapped. “Since when does that make a difference? So, what we do is we market it so that pure-bloods _do_ get something in return. It’s a partnership program, just like the supplies. Pure-blood families volunteer to work with the at-risk families to apply the potion-based wards and tailor a plan to suit their needs. All the Ministry needs to do is come by and approve it at the end, which will ensure no corners were cut in the application of the security spells.”

Understanding dawned on Potter’s face. “So it’s not a government handout—it’s a charity partnership program.”

“Precisely.” Draco smiled. “It costs the Ministry the bare minimum to run, and pure-bloods can use it to increase their charity portfolio.”

Potter wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Their _charity portfolio_?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Oh, grow up. If you want to take down a system, you have to be prepared to work it from the inside.”

He settled back in his chair as Potter eyed the proposal, studying all the details.

“It could change their views,” he said slowly, eyes still on the parchment. “They’ll have to work with half-bloods and Muggle-born families, and they’ll have to do it right or the Ministry won’t sign off on their work. They’ll have to get to _know_ them.”

Now he was getting it.

“So, what do you think?” he asked, somehow nervous to hear the answer.

Potter’s eyes lifted to his, flashing with something fierce— _burning_ with it. Draco hadn’t seen that look for years.

“It’s brilliant.”

The simple statement sent a tingle running through Draco’s body, leaving him a little breathless. He forced his face to act normally and smiled.

It was late, the lamp-light casting long shadows on the kitchen table between the two of them. Draco tried to ignore the way Potter’s posture had shifted, the way he seemed to hover on the edges of the darkness like it was something he was itching to sink into.

“What if it doesn’t work?” Potter asked, his finger tracing an idle line around the lip of his glass of scotch. “What then?”

“Then we find a new plan.”

Potter snorted derisively and glanced up at him. “There’s always a new plan.”

Even with the cloud that had settled over him, Potter’s eyes were suddenly filled with heat. Draco shifted back a little more, unsettled at the way Potter seemed to be straddling a knife’s edge tonight. On one side was the familiar darkness; on the other, there appeared to be heat—intoxicating sensation. Draco wasn’t sure he wanted to follow Potter down either path.

“This has a decent chance of working,” he said lightly. “We might not need a new plan.”

“Maybe,” Potter echoed.

Then he leaned forward on the table and propped his chin on his hand. Draco suddenly felt like he was staring down a predator.

“Are you staying tonight?” Potter asked, his eyes dark. “It’s late.”

A thrill of hot desire coursed through Draco’s stomach. Merlin, he wanted to. But… something wasn’t right. He didn’t like how quickly Potter had shifted from elation to cynicism to desire.

“I have to go,” Draco said, a little harsher than he meant to. “Are you coming to Blaise’s party on Saturday?”

Something dark flashed in Potter’s eyes at the rejection, but it passed quickly. “Of course. I’ll see you there?”

Dread sank in Draco’s stomach, but he didn’t know what else to do—didn’t know what other options he had. He really needed to talk to someone, to get the advice that Blaise had insisted he get. But every time he went to get in touch with an old therapist, something sharp and bitter would overcome him and he couldn’t do it. Tomorrow. He would do it tomorrow.

“Of course.”

He let himself out the front door to Apparate. The last thing he saw before he closed it behind him was Potter turning out the light, plunging the apartment into darkness.

*

The sounds of guests laughing and music thudding through walls surrounded Draco until he found it hard to concentrate. The week had passed in a blur full of meetings and overtime to the point that Draco was genuinely glad to have an excuse to let off steam. The uncomfortable exchange with Potter the other day was already out of his mind, and he found himself eager to find him. The last party they’d spent together had been fun; he was looking forward to doing the same again.

The crowd parted and there he was—a solitary figure leaning against the side of a curtained alcove that led to a separate drawing room. Draco’s whole body relaxed at the sight of him, his lips curving into a soft smile of their own volition. It was disgusting. He shook his head—still unable to get the smile off his face—and walked over.

“Still hiding in the corner?”

Potter regarded him, green eyes piercing in the low light. He’d watched Draco the entire time he’d walked over, barely moving at all except for his eyes which tracked Draco’s slow progress through the crowd.

“The corner’s where all the action happens,” Potter said, his voice loaded with meaning.

A sharp jolt of desire shot through Draco’s stomach. He willed it away.

“How did the proposal go?” He asked instead of responding.

Potter shifted against the wall, finally looking away from Draco and relaxing the intensity he seemed to embody with every breath. “Terrible.”

The word fell like a stone between them. Draco winced.

“How so?”

“Robards didn’t even read it properly. Just kept going on about the budget and how the Ministry can’t be seen playing favourites.”

“The man’s a moron.” Draco was surprised at the venom in his own voice. “Did you tell him you’d addressed all his issues?”

Potter stared out at the party, eyes strangely unseeing. His hands shifted by his sides, like he was itching to reach for something. Draco wondered how far Potter’s wand was from his hands.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “But the thing with Robards is, if he doesn’t want to hear it, he doesn’t. He’s got too much on his mind to think about a new program. He’d rejected it before he even knew it existed.”

“Then go higher.”

“Can’t get an appointment for two months.”

Draco took a slow breath and let it out through his nose, strangely relieved and yet filled with a tension he couldn’t place. “Two months isn’t very long.”

Potter tipped his head back to lean against the wall and looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “I guess.”

The noise of the party swelled, the distant laughter washing over them and making the silence of their little corner stand out with stark contrast. The smell of hot pastries being offered as entrées on floating trays overwhelmed Draco, making his stomach turn. This wasn’t how it was meant to go.

“Seen any crazy exes?” Draco asked, trying to lighten the mood.

Potter snorted. “No, thank Merlin. Though I think I caught sight of one of _yours_.” He raised an eyebrow at Draco.

A jolt of heat rushed through him. Potter almost looked like he was jealous. His jaw was set firm and his eyes were piercing as he stared at Draco, challenging him.

“Which one?” Draco asked.

“Nathan.”

“Ah.” Draco stepped a little further into the shadow of their corner.

Nathan had been wonderful, but they’d ended on bad terms. Nathan had insisted Draco was using him as a “fill-in” for what he couldn’t have. Draco had called him a self-obsessing idiot, and that had been that.

Potter seemed to relax at the clear sign of dismissal. He shifted to face Draco more directly, a genuine smile beginning to appear on his face. Draco’s shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. Maybe tonight was salvageable. Maybe it wasn’t going to fall apart.

An unfamiliar face appeared by Draco’s side—bright eyes and lips stretched over white, white teeth into what was obviously meant to be a smile.

“Mr. Potter,” the man said, extending his hand and beaming. “Miles Winter at your service. You contacted my department just the other day regarding the Potions Apprenticeships.”

Potter straightened up and took the man’s hand, smiling politely. “Of course. Good to meet you, Miles.”

“May I just say, Mr. Potter, your proposal was outstanding. We’re more than happy to partner up with the Aurors in pursuit of such a charitable cause.”

The smile became real, just for a second. “You have Malfoy to thank for that, actually.” He nodded to Draco. “He made it work.”

Miles blinked in surprise, but covered it quickly by shaking Draco’s hand. It was a distinctly clammy experience. “A pleasure, Mr. Malfoy.”

Potter shook his head. “Don’t get too excited. It’s been knocked back at the first stage.”

Miles’ face fell. “Knocked back?”

“Robards won’t approve it. We’ll try again at a different level, but it’s not looking good.”

“But the proposal was excellent!”

“You’re telling me.” Potter’s lips pressed together into a thin line.

Miles gaped at the two of them for a moment before shaking his head and speaking eagerly. “If there’s anything at all I can do—put in a good word, add a recommendation, anything—just let me know. I’m Muggle-born myself. Would have loved the chance to be a part of the wizarding world before stepping foot on that train, you know? And, ah—” his eyes flicked to Draco and back, “the extra security wouldn’t have gone amiss either. Just let me know! Both of you!”

After a painful few seconds of overly-genial goodbyes, Miles left them to it. When Draco turned back to Potter, the expression that met him was dark and brooding.

“Snap out of it,” Draco muttered, his eyes searching Potter’s for any sign that the man was fit to be in public. He didn’t find it. “You’re going to cause a scene.”

“What kind of scene?” Potter leered at him, the anger melting away to leave heat in its place. “I mean, if you’re offering. If I’m going to cause a scene, there might as well be something in it for me.”

Draco wasn’t offering, but his body betrayed him all the same, his cock already stirring with interest. He knew all the hidden alcoves of Blaise’s house, knew exactly where to go to ensure they wouldn’t be disturbed.

“You’re using me to avoid your emotions,” Draco protested quietly. “I rather think we should talk about it.”

“Talk about what?” Potter asked, leaning into his space. “What I’m going to do to you the second you say yes?”

Draco shivered at the words, unable to fight it back in time so Potter wouldn’t notice. To the untrained eye, it would appear they were simply having a conversation, pressed close together to be heard over the sound of the music. Bloody ironic, really, since that was exactly what Potter was avoiding.

“Come on, Potter,” Draco breathed, his voice a little shaky. “You’re all over the place tonight. Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Potter reached forward and brushed a strand of Draco’s hair back from his forehead. Draco had never felt more hopeless than he did in that moment where he had everything he so desperately wanted, and none of it in the right way.

“I think it’s a fantastic idea.” He was closer now, his breath ghosting across Draco’s skin. “I think we could find a nice, quiet little corner, and I could show you exactly why I don’t want to waste time using my mouth for _talking_.”

“Fuck.”

It was more of an exhalation than a word, and Potter’s face lit up at the sound—smug and sure.

“What do you say, Malfoy? Want to get out of here?”

Draco did. He really, really did.

“There’s a hidden balcony up the stairs and down the end of the corridor,” he whispered, hating himself with every word he spoke. “I’ll meet you there in two minutes.”

Potter paused, a small frown marring his features. “Malfoy… Are you all right? We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Draco studied him, taking in the concern on his face—the sudden softness to his eyes. He took in the lines on Potter’s face, some of them from laughter but many of them from weariness. He noted the darkness beneath his eyes and recalled the way that had evaporated in the blissful afterglow of their single night together.

“I want to.” The words came out several notes lower than his normal speaking voice, a thick rasp to his tone that would have embarrassed him if he wasn’t so fucking turned on.

Potter’s eyes darkened, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I’ll see you soon,” he murmured then disappeared.

Draco took a moment to collect himself in Potter’s absence, glancing around the room to see who was looking his way. Several eyes watched Potter as he left the room, but none of them seemed concerned with where the Chosen One was going. No one made a move to follow.

After an agonizing two minutes, Draco fled the room.

He barely made it through the glass doors before Potter had grabbed him and shoved him up against the side of the building. His hands roamed across Draco’s body like it was new, like it was perfect. Draco closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the brick. The cold of the night surrounded him, making Potter’s warm hands feel feverishly hot against his skin.

When he felt Potter grow hesitant, pulling back with a question in his eyes, Draco gave himself over to the sensation. He reached for Potter’s shoulders, gripping them almost like he was about to shake reason into him, and pulled him into a kiss so violently they nearly head-butted. Potter laughed against his mouth, surprise and pleasure and desire all wrapped up in one small, breathy sound.

Draco’s lips parted on a moan, the sounds of the night fading around him as his focus narrowed to the warm, sweet taste of Potter on his lips. He must have accidentally shut the balcony door on the curtain, because the thin sheet of lace whipped around their knees, caught in the fierce wind that had sent most sensible party-goers inside seeking shelter. It flew up on a mighty gust and wrapped around them, shielding them in flower-embossed gauze.

Potter made a half-hearted attempt at batting it away, but they were too far gone to really care. The hard length of Potter’s cock was pressed against Draco’s thigh, his own quickly swelling in response. He tugged at the front of Potter’s trousers, pulling at the buttons until they burst open and he could slide his hand down into the intoxicating warmth of Potter’s boxers. It was an awkward angle, made more difficult by the way Potter immediately ground against him without giving him space to adjust.

Draco palmed him loosely, moaning into Potter’s mouth as the slick slide of Potter’s cock met his skin.

“I need to feel you,” Potter rasped.

“What the fuck do you think we’re doing,” Draco snapped back.

Potter laughed—a genuine, throaty sound. “Not like this.”

He pulled away and spun Draco around until he was pressed face-first against the wall. Draco’s heart sped up, thumping madly in his chest as he pressed his forehead against the coolness of the brick and tried to focus on breathing. He propped his hands against the brick on either side of his chest and collapsed there, waiting.

“I need to feel you,” Potter repeated, his voice lower than normal, soft with intensity.

Potter slid his hands beneath Draco’s shirt, pulling it free from his trousers before drawing Draco’s tailored jacket slowly back down his arms. Draco heard the sound of fabric being folded and slung over the rail of the balcony, and then Potter’s hands returned to his skin, moving around to his front and undoing his trousers button by button.

Draco pressed into the wall and bit down a whimper. When Potter slid his trousers and boxers slowly over his arse and he felt the cool kiss of wind against his skin, he couldn’t help but let out a gasp. Potter smiled against his shoulder, warm lips pressed into the hollow between his neck and collar.

“Is this good?” His fingers drifted lower, tracing a line down between Draco’s thighs.

“Yes.” Draco panted, struggling to maintain any dignity at all and failing magnificently.

“How about this?” A slickness appeared on Draco’s skin everywhere Potter’s fingers pressed.

Through the haze of lust, Draco could hear that something was off about Potter’s voice. There was a darkness there, more than just the heady tide of desire. Potter was losing himself in this, giving over to the need, the _want_. But emotions are like a bottomless pool; once you’ve given over to one, the others will follow. There was a rage simmering below the thickness of desire in Potter’s voice, an anger that Draco couldn’t predict.

Draco shivered, equal parts fear and desire. What was he walking into? What had he _already_ walked into?

Potter’s fingers slid against him, firm between the cleft of his thighs. Every time they passed over him, they would press a little deeper until Potter was knuckle deep inside him and Draco was writhing against the cold wall. Any thoughts of trying to salvage their relationship into something verging on healthy disappeared; if it was healthy, he wouldn’t have _this_.

“Are you sure—” Draco began, but he had to pause to regain his voice, make it sound like he wasn’t falling apart at the seams. “Are you sure you want me like this? You could have me on my knees again.”

The thought of taking Potter in his mouth made him weak, but at least he would feel as though he had some measure of control over the situation again. At least when it was Potter writhing like this, Draco could feel like he wasn’t losing it.

Potter twisted his finger deeper, slid another one in alongside it. “I’m sure.”

Draco gripped the wall and shut his eyes. The lace of the curtain fluttered around him, twisting around his fingers as he flexed against the brick, desperate for something to hold onto. He clenched it beneath his fist, turning his face slightly and opening his eyes. The world passed by through the hazy material—dark shadows in the night, twisted trees, and the pale shadow of Potter moving behind him, adjusting his trousers and bringing the hard weight of his cock to line up between Draco’s thighs.

“Can I?” Potter asked, his voice breathless.

“ _Please_.”

Potter thrust inside. It was a slow slide to the base, but once he was in he quickly began to move, reckless and unsteady. The distant sound of laughter and voices drifted up over the balcony; the wind was easing and people were braving the elements once more. But up on the second floor, it was still just as wild as before. The doors of the balcony rattled in the breeze, the curtains pulled taught in Draco’s fist.

He could still see Potter moving, a dark shape behind him, the two of them in shadow. Draco’s cock was hard, so hard, and he didn’t even care anymore about trying to keep it away from the rough slide of the brick wall. The pain was grounding, matched by the rough thrusts of Potter behind him. His arse was so full, Potter’s cock dragging over the sweet spot inside him until he could hardly feel anything else.

They stopped trying to be quiet. Potter’s moans had an edge of violence to them, though his hands on Draco’s skin were gentle. Distantly, Draco could hear how his own voice sounded—weak, lost. The conversation below them stuttered into silence for a fraction of a second before the sound of incredulous laughter floated up around them; they’d been heard. Draco didn’t care.

Where they stood on the balcony was shrouded in shadow, and Blaise’s party was huge and full of Slytherins. No one in their right mind would think it was the two of them up here.

“Do you want me to slow down?” Potter asked, the words rough, whispered into Draco’s ear.

Draco shook his head. “Faster.”

Potter groaned and obliged, his hands gripping Draco’s hips so hard he was sure to leave bruises. Draco dropped a hand down between the wall and his cock, gripping himself and sliding up and down in smooth strokes. He was close, and judging from the urgent sounds behind him, Potter was, too.

Potter dropped his head against Draco’s back, soft whimpers falling from his mouth as he stuttered, rhythm failing him in the moment of ecstasy. Draco bit his lip, jerking himself off faster as Potter moaned against his shirt, pressing open-mouthed kisses onto his neck and whimpering with each final, weak thrust. In seconds, he was coming too, covering the wall and part of the curtains in white.

They stayed there for long moments, their breath a visible white mist that mingled together. Draco turned his head, reaching for Potter’s mouth with his own until they were kissing again, languid and slow.

When he drew back, Potter’s face was caught in the light from inside. Draco’s breath hitched—at first in pure surrender, but then he saw again the lines on Potter’s face, the dark shadows beneath his eyes that were still visible, even in the afterglow.

“Are you all right?” he asked, the words dropping from his lips before he could rethink them.

“Never better,” Potter murmured with a wicked grin, doing up his trousers and leaning back against the railing.

Anger rose in Draco’s chest, banishing the lingering peace of his orgasm. “I’m not talking about the sex,” he snapped. “Something is wrong.”

Potter’s expression shut down, his eyes turning instantly cold and distant. “I’m fine.”

“And puffskeins fly. Stop closing off and fucking talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about!”

“Bullshit. If you won’t talk to me, you should talk to a professional at least.”

Potter froze, and a cold trickle of dread ran down Draco’s spine. “A professional what?”

Draco swallowed and made sure to hold Potter’s gaze. “A Mind Healer. There’s nothing shameful about it.”

Potter raised an eyebrow. “And why do I need to see a Mind Healer, exactly?”

Draco stared at him incredulously. “Because you need help.”

Something shattered. Draco whipped his head around to see the glass all along the balcony doors was lined with cracks. When he turned back to Potter, Potter’s fists were clenched with rage and his breathing unsteady.

Seconds ticked by slowly. Draco was unwilling to break the silence, not sure what he could say that wouldn’t make it worse but not wanting to leave Potter alone like this. He didn’t know why Potter remained silent, still. Didn’t know why he didn’t just leave or hurl some hex at Draco and turn this argument into something real.

Potter’s chest heaved and his eyes had turned slightly glazed. After a moment, Draco realised he wasn’t looking at Draco; his eyes were fixed at some distant point Draco couldn’t see.

“Potter,” he said softly, carefully. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve seen plenty of them. They really do help.”

He wasn’t sure Potter was even hearing him—was even capable of hearing him. He kept speaking, saying useless words that meant nothing, everything. He wasn’t even sure what he was saying, knew that he wouldn’t be able to recall it once it was over.

Suddenly, Potter’s gaze refocused and he looked at Draco properly. “I’m leaving,” he said, the words flat and toneless.

His shoulders were rigid with tension. Draco thought he could hear the stones in the balcony floor creaking in protest, like some unknown force was shoving them apart.

Then, Potter was gone. The balcony was colder without him, the wind racing through Draco’s hair with an icy touch. He retrieved his jacket from the handrail, where it had been folded with unexpected care. He hooked it over his arm and just stayed there for long, long moments, staring out into the night.

The noise of the party still surrounded him, the music thudding through the walls and from the garden below. He’d never felt more removed from his surroundings.

A footstep landed behind him, but it was too light to be Potter’s.

“Draco?” Pansy’s voice was hesitant.

“It’s nice out here,” Draco lied, clenching his knuckles against the frost of the wind.

“I suppose,” she said after a pause. Then, “Your hair is ruined.”

The footsteps came closer and then light fingers ran through his hair, adjusting it, smoothing it back into place.

“There. Good as new.” There was a smile in her voice, but it was tinged with anxiety.

“Good as new,” Draco echoed.

A face came into view—worried eyes and a fierce black bob. Pansy reached out and smoothed the lines of his cheek with her fingers.

“Come on,” she said finally. “We’re going back inside.”

She didn’t know what had happened; Draco could tell as much from her confused expression. She guessed, maybe. But for some reason, she didn’t bring it up, didn’t probe him for answers. He was grateful for the space.

Draco let her link arms with him and lead him back to the party, the sounds of the night fading behind him until it was nothing but a distant howl of wind whistling through shattered glass.


	4. Chapter 4

Blaise regarded him with kind eyes. Draco had been sitting on the floor of Blaise’s ballroom, knees hugged to his chest, for thirty-seven minutes without speaking—a personal best—and while Blaise had been nothing but understanding, Draco suspected they were reaching their limit.

“What’s happened?” Blaise asked, like the traitor he was.

“I need a drink,” Draco moaned.

“No. I’m not getting you a drink. Unless it’s water; would you like a glass of water, Draco?”

“No.”

“Then stop asking and tell me what’s happened.”

Draco unraveled his legs and let his head fall back against the wall. “I fucked up.”

“Several times this month, I’m sure. What in particular have you done that has caused this latest wave of melancholy?”

Blaise’s words were light, but his mouth was pursed into a tight line. He knew what was wrong. Any other person, and Draco would assume they were faking empathy, but with Blaise it was real. He’d clearly been asleep when Draco arrived, past midnight—probably enjoying an early night after his party the night before—and yet there was no sign of annoyance. He simply sat there in his white, silken robe and sleep-mussed hair, gazing at Draco and waiting.

“I didn’t…” Draco trailed off, staring up at the cavernous ceiling of Blaise’s ballroom. He didn’t know why the fuck he’d led Blaise in here when he turned up in the Floo tonight. It just seemed like the best shot of being in a room where the walls didn’t feel like they were closing in. “I didn’t get help. You know how you told me to get help? I didn’t do it, and now he’s in trouble, and I think I need help.”

Blaise’s eyebrows drew together. “Why can’t you get help now?”

“Because it’s too late.”

“It’s not too late. If it were too late, you wouldn’t be here.”

Their voices rang out oddly in the huge space. The light blue walls didn’t feel like they were closing in, but they made Draco feel very small. Very small and very lost and very alone. The sensation of it all was making Draco’s head spin and his vision blur. Or maybe that was just the panic.

“No.” Draco shook his head, scrubbing his hands through his hair and gripping the strands tight enough that it hurt. “I mean it’s too late for my plan. I wanted to stay with him, Blaise, so that I could help him. I was the… the warning bell. I was meant to keep an eye on the signs and swoop in like a… a.. a fucking guardian angel or something. I was meant to save him, but I don’t think I should be around him anymore.”

“Why not?”

Draco’s mind went back to the other night, when Potter’s rage had seemed to surround them, buried in the walls like embers, and all he’d wanted to do to resolve it was fuck Draco’s brains out.

“I’m not helping,” he whispered. “He’s using me to ignore the problem.”

Blaise’s mouth opened indignantly, but Draco cut him off.

“He’s not _using_ me. I’m a willing participant, Blaise. Merlin, what do you take me for?”

Blaise raised one eyebrow. “Certainly not a Slytherin.” Then, he pulled a thoughtful face. “Or possibly the most Slytherin of us all.”

They fell into silence before Blaise gave a little sigh and spoke again. “He’s using you to cope; that’s normal. You’d be better equipped to handle this if you’d spoken to a professional when I told you to, but it’s certainly not too late to start, Draco.”

“They’re just going to tell me to stop seeing him.”

“You don’t _know_ that.” Irritation broke through into Blaise’s tone. “Merlin, Draco. You’re trying to do this all on your own. I _warned_ you about this.”

“I know!” Draco yelled, whipping his head up to glare at Blaise. “I _know_ but he spooks so easily, Blaise. I tried to bring up the idea of therapy and he nearly attacked me!”

“Have you thought about telling him the truth?”

Draco’s blood ran cold. “The what?”

Blaise’s eyes were steady, his expression gentle but impassive. “You’re playing against him like he’s some skilled opponent you’re trying to outwit. Really, you’re meant to be working on this together. If you’re terrified that taking action without his approval will ruin what you have going on, along with any chance to help him, and if you already know that what you have can’t last in its current form, then you only have one option left.”

“You’re telling me…” Draco said slowly. “To tell the truth. You. Blaise Zabini.”

Blaise laughed. “I’m telling you to take the smartest option. Make him listen to you. Be persuasive.” He lifted his eyebrows suggestively before turning solemn once more. “Seriously, Draco—this has to stop.”

“This has to stop,” Draco echoed.

“Stop trying to outwit him. Stop trying to reveal only half your hand at a time so that he doesn’t spook. He’s a Gryffindor. Tell him everything and trust in his instincts.”

“You think he has any left?”

“I think it’s your only chance.”

The words echoed in the empty room, surrounding Draco and filling him with a sense of inevitability.

“Right,” he said a little weakly. “I’ll just go… do that.”

“Chin up.” Blaise patted him on the back. “The worst you can do is fuck everything up completely, and hey—you’re already doing that!”

“I don’t know why I even come here anymore.”

Blaise laughed, eyes lighting up with warmth and affection. He squeezed Draco on the shoulder, and Draco leant into the touch, just for a moment. It was grounding and real, and he needed that.

Then, he took a deep breath and left.

*

Draco stared at his reflection. He’d arranged to meet Potter, but an owl had come from Pansy asking them all to meet her at work. She’d probably been given a promotion, or otherwise was attempting to rope them into free labor, but either way he needed to make sure he was dressed to impress. Pansy was vicious about who she allowed near her work and in what state. She’d once set security on Theo for stepping foot in the building while wearing flip flops.

He eventually decided on the charcoal three-piece. He couldn’t bring himself to choose anything brighter. He dressed slowly and carefully, poking and prodding at his face until it seemed to fall into some semblance of “alive”. He chose a pale concealer for under his eyes, smoothing out the lines that he swore had popped up in the last few weeks alone. When he’d finished, there wasn’t a hair out of place; he was dressed to kill, and he’d never felt less equipped to face the world.

But he had a plan now; that was something. It was a better plan than the ridiculous mess of the last weeks, that was for sure. He was no longer going to pretend there was any way he could handle this on his own. He was going to do away with this stupid façade of a fake relationship and tell Potter what he really wanted, whilst making it clear that Draco’s biggest priorities were respecting whatever boundaries Potter put into place and getting him the help he needed.

And if those boundaries were to tell Draco to fuck right off, that was what he would do. But before he left he would made it clear that Potter only had to say the word—there was _nothing_ Draco wouldn’t do to get Potter the help he needed, no matter how long it took, or how long Potter needed to come to terms with it. Draco would make sure Potter knew that Draco would give him space, if that’s what it took, and that when Potter was ready, Draco had a list of resources waiting for him. He didn’t have to face this alone anymore.

Draco had written those resources out to give to him. There was every chance Potter would tear it up, but at least he would know it was there. It would give him a light at the end of the tunnel, even if it took him years to see it.

Draco’s mouth went dry; he hoped it didn’t take years.

Finally, he couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer. Hopefully Pansy didn’t need them for too long, and he and Potter could escape with relative ease. He Apparated away.

The foyer was empty when he arrived, the marble pillars looming around him and making him feel strangely lonely. The lights weren’t even on. He’d just found a corner to wait in when a noise from the entrance made him turn. Potter stood there, illuminated by the soft light of the setting sun behind him. There was something off about his expression, but Draco couldn’t see it well enough to figure out what it was.

He stepped forward and smiled, noting that Potter took several seconds before he seemed to process the movement and realise that Draco was there.

He made a strangled noise, shook his head a little, and said, “Thought I must be in the wrong place.”

“No one else is here,” Draco agreed, looking around at the stark room. His voice echoed a little as he spoke. “I wonder if Pansy wants us to go upstairs.”

Potter frowned. “But it’s late. And Pansy… I mean, the receptionist isn’t even here, though. Pansy must be working late or something.” The words came slowly, like Potter had to force them out. Like it took him a second to remember which order they were meant to go in.

Suddenly, the lights flickered into life, and they turned to find Pansy leaning in the entrance to the stairwell, arms folded. For a moment, fear flickered in Draco’s chest as he took in the faint note of apprehension on her face. But it was gone in a flash, replaced by a reluctant smile.

“Congratulations, gentlemen,” she purred, just as the entrance doors swung open and Weasley and Granger burst through.

“Are we late?” Ron panted and then promptly shut his mouth when he saw they were all waiting.

Pansy laughed and strode over to join them, linking her arm with Granger. “I was just telling them.”

The seconds before she turned back to them passed like years, and Draco felt his stomach sink right down to the floor. Not now. Please, not now.

“You win.”

No.

“We believe you.”

Please, no.

Granger began to laugh and Weasley strode forward to shake their hands. Draco couldn’t feel his fingers; everything had gone numb.

“At first, we thought you had an elaborate scheme going,” Pansy said, her eyes fixed on Draco. “But there were too many details that you couldn’t have faked.”

The sadness in her eyes, the worry, were all too clear as they stared at one another. More than anything, Draco wished he could make her stop—stop talking, stop thinking this was real, stop everything. He should have told her. He should have confessed to her and asked for her help; she would have known what to do.

Potter laughed beside him and swept Granger into a hug, but Draco couldn’t turn, couldn’t look.

“Against all odds,” Pansy went on, her lips quirking into a reluctant smile. “You two are good for each other. I never would have believed it, but you seem to be in the depths of a healthy, mature relationship. Congratulations, boys. Shall we head to _Bentleys_?”

Draco’s eyes pleaded with her, silently begging her to see through the lie. He felt a hand clasp his shoulder, and on reflex, he turned. Potter was there, green eyes shining with mirth and triumph. Beneath it, something strange simmered—the same thing that had been frozen in Potter’s eyes when he’d first stepped through the doors. It was a little cold, a little tinged with a blank emptiness that sent warning bells ringing in Draco’s mind. Draco frowned, but he couldn’t think of what to say to address it, couldn’t think how to help.

“Who would have thought it,” Potter said softly, his face soft with amusement that only Draco understood. A private joke, just for them. “Shall we?”

Draco opened his mouth to end the charade, the truth on the tip of his tongue, but then Potter bent down and swept him into a kiss. His lips were warm and insistent, coaxing Draco forward. It was so familiar, so comforting, that Draco couldn’t help but fall into it, his hand sliding around the back of Potter’s neck and holding him there. All his willpower evaporated, and in that moment, he wouldn’t have let go for the world.

“Get a room!” Pansy groaned, giving them a little shove as she walked passed, toward the door. “Come on, I’m hungry.”

They broke apart, staring at each other. For a moment, Draco thought he saw something in Potter’s eyes—something real. Then it was gone.

Potter winked and turned to the door. The space he left behind was cold, and Draco felt so empty.

He didn’t remember the walk to _Bentley’s._ Didn’t remember handing over his coat. Didn’t remember sitting down at the best table, high on the mezzanine with a view of the beautiful pond outside. He knew that Potter’s hands were on his waist for most of it, knew that Potter kept leaning in to whisper commentary in his ear, like they were actually lovers instead of just one big fucking mess. Draco made sure to smile and laugh when necessary, but he felt like he was floating. The sounds of surrounding conversation blurred into one, and he couldn’t focus beyond the painful tightening of his chest.

“Draco?”

The voice pierced through the fog of his increasing panic—something about its tone dragging him out of his thoughts. He looked up and saw Potter’s concerned face mere inches from his own.

“There you are,” he said softly.

Around the other side of the table, Pansy, Granger, and Weasley were all testing the wine. Granger even had the menu laid out in front of her and a frown on her face as she took small sips and ran her finger down the options. None of them were looking over at Draco and Potter; they had a moment of privacy.

“This is insane,” Draco said without thinking.

Potter laughed a little breathlessly. “I know. I can’t wait to tell them.”

Draco’s chest lightened. “You want to break the charade?”

Potter looked at him funny. “Well, not till after dessert, yeah? Have to let them pick up the cheque first.”

Icy fingers wrapped around Draco’s heart. Of course—the bet.

“Listen,” Draco said carefully. “I have something I want to talk to you about. Can we meet after dinner?”

The strangeness was still there, evident in the slight fumbling of Potter’s movements, the awkward way he seemed to be unsure of where his body began and ended. Even with the warmth of conversation the two were sharing, Potter seemed absent, like the only moments he was truly here were when they were laughing over the bet. But it was superficial laughter—triumphant and proud, but barely cutting the surface. His eyes kept darting to the door and Draco realised he had chosen the seat against the wall. It sharpened his resolve to end this tonight.

A flash of concern crossed Potter’s features. “Is everything all right?”

“Of course. I just… I just need to talk to you.”

Tan fingers reached across the table and squeezed Draco’s hand gently. “Absolutely,” he agreed with a warm smile. “Whatever you need.”

A surge of relief coursed through him; soon, it would all be over.

It took a second or two for Draco to register the rise in volume in the conversations around them. By the time he had, the Patronus had already reached them. A beautiful wolf skidded to a halt in front of Potter and howled.

Potter snapped to attention. “What is it?”

“Hate crime,” the wolf said in Robards’ voice. “Muggle-born shopping for Hogwarts supplies. We were too late on the scene.”

If he hadn’t been so attuned to Potter’s every moment, he never would have noticed it—the subtle shift in Potter’s breathing, the unnatural stillness of his features. Across the table, the other three were whispering in muted tones of horror, unaware that something was horribly, horribly wrong.

“Potter,” Draco whispered, laying a hand on his arm.

There was no response. Potter’s eyes were glazed and far-seeing.

The wolf continued to speak. “Meet in five for a full report.” Then, it vanished.

“Harry,” Draco hissed, urgently now.

Still nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the others starting to take note, sitting up taller and reaching forward.

“Harry, stop it.” He could hear the urgency, the fear, in his own voice but he couldn’t stop it. “What’s wrong? Harry!”

There was nothing there on his face, no expression, no emotion, nothing. Draco grabbed Potter’s arm and shook it, but when he dropped his hand, Potter’s arm remained in place—stuck out rigidly and almost inhuman. True fear hit Draco like a tidal wave, rising in his chest and threatening to spill over.

Draco felt hands on his shoulders pulling him back. He fell into the person holding him and began to shake.

Pansy moved in front of him and began tapping Potter on the cheek, lightly at first and then harder as she became more panicked.

“Is he in shock?” Granger asked, her voice smaller than Draco had ever heard it.

“I don’t know,” Pansy hissed. “I don’t— Potter, can you hear me? _Potter!_ ” She grabbed his chin and spun his face so that he was looking at her, but his eyes remained fixed and unseeing.

“ _Fuck!_ ” She muttered, the word sounding like a sob. She closed her eyes for half a second, and then snapped them open again. “Get St Mungo’s,” she said to a hovering waiter, her tone sure and authoritative.

“Right away, Miss.”

Warm hands were running circles on Draco’s back. In front of him, Granger was arranging her coat around Potter, who still hadn’t moved. Her hands were shaking, and she kept stroking Potter’s hair tentatively, as if unsure whether or not she should be touching him.

“Get Blaise,” Draco whispered.

Pansy frowned at him. “Blaise?”

“I just need him to be here.” There was an edge of hysteria to his voice but he didn’t care.

Pansy nodded and sent off a Patronus immediately.

Long, long moments passed. All Draco could hear were the excited whispers of the people around them, the faint whimper from Granger when she could no longer hold it in, the steady tap of Pansy’s nails against the table. It was excruciating.

Until the room descended into chaos and Draco would have given anything to have the silence again. They were shoved out of the way so that tests could be run for spells and curses. Draco didn’t bother to tell them it was useless; he didn’t want to give anything away publicly, and he didn’t think he was capable of speech anyway.

In the background, he could hear the Healers asking questions and his friends answering as best they could. He couldn’t work out what they were saying; the words didn’t make sense anymore.

The Healers shoved a Portkey into Potter’s hands and disappeared with a flash just as Blaise Apparated into the restaurant, dressed in nothing but a silk robe with water pooling on his skin and hair.

He spotted Draco immediately and hurried over, resting his hand on the shoulder that Weasley wasn’t currently holding.

“Right,” Blaise said, breathing heavily, ignoring the looks of confusion from the other three.

Draco reached up and clasped his hand, squeezing it.

“Right,” Blaise repeated, steadier now. “To St Mungo’s?”

Draco took a deep breath, and together they all Apparated away.

*

The waiting room was ice cold. They hadn’t been allowed in to see him yet, but they’d been told that he’d come out of the catatonia as soon as they’d landed from the Portkey. Draco read between the lines on that one. He wondered just how violent Potter had been when he’d come back to himself hurtling through empty space and landing somewhere he didn’t recognise.

All they knew now was that he was safe and they would be able to see him shortly. It seemed Healers had a different sense of time, though, since they’d already been waiting over two hours.

Blaise had disappeared to get clothing early on, returning with steaming coffees and bars of chocolate for them all. Draco’s tasted like ash but he knew it would help, and Blaise had gone to the effort of it, so he ate it all. Every bite caught in his throat, the rich scent of sugar drowned by the bile he kept wanting to spit out. The coffee was better—at least it was warm.

Granger had tried to ask him what he knew at first, but she’d quickly given up. Draco wasn’t about to share Potter’s secrets, especially since he’d never given them freely in the first place.

A noise by the doorway made him look up. He nearly spilled his coffee when he realised the nurse was standing there. He lurched to his feet and stumbled forward.

“How is he?”

She smiled, but it was the gentle, soft smile that nurses give when they’re about to say something bad. “He’s calmer now,” she said, addressing them all. “But I’m afraid we really can’t let you all in to see him yet. Unless any of you are family?”

Weasley stepped forward. “Yeah, we’re his family.”

The nurse frowned. “Blood?”

“He’s _Harry Potter_ ,” Weasley snapped. “We’re his only family.”

The nurse held up a hand in apology. “I understand, but I really must stress he’s not in the most appropriate condition for visitors. Unless you’re a relative or spouse, I can’t let you through yet.”

“Draco’s his partner,” Pansy said, giving him a little shove forward.

He felt Blaise turn to him, his eyes practically burning a hole into the side of Draco’s head.

The nurse smiled at him. “In that case, please come through. The rest of you will be able to visit shortly.”

Draco followed the nurse down the hall, sterile white walls surrounding him and making his teeth ache. So much white; it was blinding. Before long, they arrived at a tiny, secluded room away from everything else. All Draco could think as he walked inside was how lonely it was.

Potter looked a mess, sitting in the bed with his head tipped back against the wall and his eyes staring, unseeing, at the ceiling. For a moment, Draco was terrified that he’d fallen back into the state he was in before, but then he shifted and looked over at them. A strange emotion passed across his face for a split second—a mix of surprise and fear and anger all at once—and then it was gone.

“Draco,” he muttered, voice raspy from disuse. Or from yelling. Draco wasn’t sure. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ll leave you alone,” the nurse said, patting Draco on the shoulder with a kind smile and leaving the room.

Draco hovered awkwardly by the foot of the bed. He wanted to reach out, to clasp Potter’s face between his hands and reassure him that it would be all right. But how did he know that? For all he knew, it wouldn’t be.

“How do you feel?” he asked finally, perching on the edge of the bed. He didn’t know if he was allowed any closer.

Potter gave a wry smile. “Embarrassed. I don’t know what the fuck came over me. It was… it was really strange.”

“In what way?”

“It felt nice.”

A shiver ran down Draco’s spine but Potter didn’t notice.

“It felt as though everything had just gone away.” His voice took on a dream-like quality for a moment, but then he shook his head and it returned to normal. “I guess I’ve just been really stressed lately. Sorry you had to see that.” He laughed. “At least we won the bet.”

Cold rage clenched tight in Draco’s chest. He willed himself to squash it down, but he was strung so tight, it was the last straw.

“Who cares about the fucking bet,” he snapped and then immediately regretted it.

He dropped his head into his hands to hide from the shock on Potter’s face and spoke into the space between his fingers. “You need help. You’re sick.”

“What?”

He looked up at the incredulity in Potter’s tone. “Sick. You’re sick. What came over you was a dissociative state so strong that you became fucking catatonic.”

Potter’s face closed over, and the anger Draco had seen just before rose to the surface again. “And I suppose you think you know the answer?”

“No,” Draco spat. “Of course I don’t know the answer. But at least I can see the fucking problem.”

“So I’m a problem now?”

Draco’s anger drained away as suddenly as it had appeared. “Stop looking for an argument and work _with_ me,” he begged.

“Work with you on _what_? Completely misunderstanding what’s going on and trying to make it out like I’m some kind of basket case?”

Internally, Draco shrieked. Externally, he fought to keep as calm as he could.

“I don’t want to argue with you about this,” he said gently. “I want to help you. You’re not a basket case; you have trauma. I do too, and I’ve dealt with it only marginally better than you have, but fortunately I don’t get faced with mine every single day at work. Please, _please_ let me help you, Harry.”

They stared at one another, the flickering fluorescent lights of the hospital room giving everything a surreal sensation that Draco couldn’t seem to shake. It was like watching something from under water, or coming off a sedative after surgery. He ached to reach for Potter, to climb into the bed with him and just hold him, but he couldn’t. They didn’t have that sort of relationship.

Finally, Potter spoke, all emotion removed from his voice. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Draco held up his hands in defence. “I’m not going to make you.”

“But you think I’m nuts.”

Draco grit his teeth together and counted to three. “No. I think you’re sick.”

“In the head. So: nuts.”

“I already said I don’t want to argue with you—”

“You think I’m a freak.”

Ah.

A deep ache started up in Draco’s chest, filling him with a sadness so deep he didn’t know if it would ever end.

“I don’t think you’re a freak,” he said quietly.

Potter wouldn’t look at him. He stared mutely ahead, eyes blazing. “Why are you even here, Malfoy? We’re not _actually_ dating. We’re barely even friends. Bet’s off; just go home.”

Draco felt hollow. The sound of distant conversation washed over him, filling him with a burning irritation that he lacked the energy to do anything about.

“If that’s what you want.” He reached into his pocket and drew out the folded sheet of parchment with the list of names he’d compiled for Potter. “If you decide you change your mind, if you want to see someone and start on the road to healing, here’s a few places you can begin.” He refused to look at Potter as he set the parchment down on the bedside table, tucking it beneath Potter’s wand. “The one at the top is the lady I first saw. Talks a bit too much, but she helped me open up.”

He stepped back and shoved his hands in his pockets. Potter didn’t look at him, but at least he didn’t tear up the parchment either. After a moment of silence, Draco nodded awkwardly.

“Goodbye Potter.”

There was no response.

He left the room quickly, eyes already blurring as he took corners at random, hoping he’d stumble on the exit before he stumbled on anyone he knew.

“Mr. Malfoy?”

He turned to see the nurse waving at him from the reception. He froze still and waited.

“Could you help us fill out Mr. Potter’s forms? It will only take a moment; we just need a few contact details. You’re his partner, is that correct?”

He remembered Potter’s hands on him, the way they came together with an urgency he’d never found in anyone else. He remembered late nights spent together, planning and working on various projects, the way the lamp-light caught Potter’s eyes and made them blaze like fire. He remembered Pansy watching them, expression full of concern about things that Draco had thought she didn’t understand. Really, she had understood far better and far sooner than the rest of them. He remembered her giving them her blessing only hours ago.

“No,” he said, relieved to hear how calm his voice was, how steady. “We just broke up.”

*

When Draco arrived in France, it was the middle of the night and—fittingly—pouring with rain. The old apartment blocks had changed a little since he’d been here last, but the alleys looked the same. He picked his way over the broken bottles and piles of trash until he reached the dumpsters at the end of the lane. There used to be squatters here, when he’d been here last, but the apartments were cleaner now, trendier, and they didn’t stand for that sort of thing anymore.

Draco had stayed here for six months or so, not long after the war. His first therapist—the one he’d recommended to Potter—had been back in London. She’d got him to open up, but by the time he was ready to talk about things he was so sick of her saccharinely sweet chatter that he had to leave. He tried a Mind Healer recommended by St Mungo’s, but it had only taken two sessions before he’d had to either leave or punch the smarmy git’s face in. He’d reminded Draco of himself, and at the time that had been the very last thing he’d needed.

Eventually, he’d run so far he’d ended up here. He hadn’t intended to keep searching for therapists, but he’d found one all the same. In the middle of a night quite similar to this one, he’d sent up a beacon from his wand. It wasn’t meant to reach anyone—didn’t even mean anything. It was just a bright, golden light full of glittering blue stars, filling a tiny corner of the sky above France. He’d lit up the night for hours, lying on the top of these apartment roofs while confused Muggles crowded below and tried to work out where the fireworks were coming from.

In the centre of his beacon, there was no light. There was a darkness there that had somehow been darker than shadow—not just the mere absence of light, but an unearthly pit that swallowed the rest whole. When the tiny witch with the bright pink hair had Apparated next to him, startling him out of a trance he hadn’t known he’d fallen into, she explained that it had been that centre that drew her here.

“There’s darkness in you,” she had said, crossing her legs to sit beside him and watch the stars. “That’s where the light comes from.”

If anyone else had said it, he would have hexed them before the words had even finished leaving their mouth, but from her, it sounded different. She wasn’t trying to impress him, to make him into something he wasn’t like some kind of poor, lost, misunderstood soul. She was simply recognizing something in him—something real and true, and that few other people had ever been interested in knowing.

“I suppose,” he’d said, unwilling to reveal any of what he was thinking.

She turned to him and grinned. “You think it makes you look like a tosser, don’t you?”

That had surprised a laugh out of him when, really, it should have made him angry.

“I _am_ a tosser,” he’d corrected her. “Just not for the reasons everyone thinks.”

She nodded at that, taking in the words and just absorbing them without commentary. For half a second, Draco had fallen in love with her, just for the simple reason that she had been given the opportunity to weigh in on his life choices and had chosen not to.

“If you ever want to talk about those reasons, I’m uniquely qualified to listen.” She handed him a card.

It held the same words as the other two had, but they meant something different to Draco that night. For the first time in weeks, he began to feel hope.

She stood, brushing off her jeans and taking one last look at the fading lights above them. “I reckon you can get them brighter,” she teased.

Then she winked at him and Apparated away. He stared at the empty space she left behind for long moments, and then fired off another spell. The golden lights lit up the sky as far as the eye could see, full of blues and reds and a startling green that coursed through it all like a snake. He let his head fall back against the cool concrete of the roof and laughed.

The roof was empty tonight, the occupants of the apartments fast asleep. Draco Apparated to the uppermost apartment, the one he had stayed in, and found it empty. He wasn’t surprised—he’d left a strong illusion on it to deter any onlookers, and the entire space was taken over by enlargement spells and charms. It felt like home, if a little dusty and forgotten.

He collapsed on the bed, plumes of dust startling into the air around him, and stared at the ceiling. After a moment, he lifted his wand and sent a tiny ball of golden sparks into the air. It hovered for a second, and then disappeared through the wall and into the night.

He didn’t know if Eleanor still practiced here. She might not even be in the country anymore. But she would get his message and know where to find him. Hopefully, she would be able to see him despite the short notice.

Then, he closed his eyes and pushed aside all the thoughts and memories he didn’t have the energy to think about. He’d keep them hidden for another night at least, and then, when he was able to find someone who could help him, he would let them all pour out.

*

As it happened, she arranged an extra session in her schedule to see him the next day. When he woke up to her ferret Patronus skittering about the living room, he’d just about cried from relief. He hadn’t known how much he was holding onto until that moment.

He made a note of the booking time—8pm, well after her last appointment—and left the apartment in search of food and clothing.

He’d tried to pack the essentials before he left London, but in typically dramatic fashion, _everything_ had reminded him of Potter. He could smell Potter’s shampoo on his bedsheets, feel his heavy presence lingering in the foyer—even Draco’s shirts reminded him of Potter because all he could think was the was the man reveled in peeling them away button by button.

The realisation that he had become every bit the pathetic, love-struck teenager he thought himself above had made him so angry he’d left with nothing but the clothes on his back.

He strolled down the shopping district, searching for a café he remembered from his time here. They’d made an exceptionally good cappuccino, and he was in dire need. Before long, he’d found it tucked away in a little corner of the street, and once he emerged with a steaming ceramic takeaway mug, he felt ready to tackle the day.

Retail therapy had always been Draco’s go-to. It was enjoyable, distracting, and most importantly required nothing from him emotionally. By lunchtime, his pockets were fall of shrunken bags of clothing, books, an expensive watch that he justified because he’d left home without one, and several pieces of jewelry for Pansy. He’d eyed off a number of ancient texts with Blaise in mind, but he felt he owed Blaise more than a dusty old book, even if the man did go wild for them. He’d settled for a delicate tome on the origins of Herbology and decided to think carefully about something more indicative of the depths of his appreciation.

By evening, the shopping had done what it had been intended to do. Draco felt more at ease within his own skin, and just the knowledge that he was about to visit Eleanor, who would without a doubt carry him through whatever mess he’d backed himself into, filled him with a sense of calm. He took his time getting ready, dressing with care but choosing not to conceal the lines and shadows on his face, and left.

“Draco.” Eleanor’s voice was warm, filled with genuine pleasure at the sight of him on the doorstep of her office. “It’s been years.”

“Too long.” He smiled as he followed her in and took a seat at the armchair by the fire.

“You’re happy there?” she asked. “The furniture has been rearranged a little since you were here last, so feel free to take any of the other seats.”

Draco shifted in the chair, allowing himself to acknowledge the emotions he kept so tightly reined in. He felt safe here, and he liked sitting with his back to the window.

“I’m happy,” he agreed.

She took a seat opposite him, set her blank sheets of paper and pen down on the table between them, and smiled. “You look well,” she said, regarding his choice of clothing. “Tired but well.”

“I have been well.” As he said the words, he acknowledged both the truth in them and the lie he hadn’t wanted to admit, even with everything that had happened. “But I should have come to see you sooner. Not even because of all this, but—” he stalled, trying to think of the words while Eleanor sat patiently and waited. “I don’t think we ever finished here. I just sort of… disappeared.”

Eleanor leaned back in her seat, getting comfortable. “Therapy is an ongoing process. It looks different for everyone, but that’s not to say that you were doing it _wrong_ by disappearing. Good therapy takes time. Above all else, you need to be ready, willing, and able.”

Draco smiled a little at the memory of the phrase. It had been years since he’d heard it. Somehow now, he thought he understood it.

“I think, before, I was ready…” he said slowly.

Eleanor nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Willing, too.”

“More willing than most.”

“But I wasn’t able.”

Eleanor regarded him. “Why do you think that?”

The words came haltingly. “I didn’t know how to do what I needed to do. Your words made sense, and I could see how things weren’t right, but it was all from a distance. It was like I understood the theory but not the practice.”

“And you think that’s changed?”

Draco nodded. Something beneath his skin was burning—a need to throw himself into _something_ , to do, to be, in a way that he hadn’t ever before. He felt that, and he felt something else too. He had an awareness of the need to slow down, to listen, to feel.

In the past, Eleanor had worked with him to process the parts of his past that haunted him, but whenever he’d tried to he’d ended up wound tighter and tighter, unable to feel anything except the urgency to _fix_ it. The burning need beneath his skin had consumed him, and eventually he’d reached a limit on all that he could achieve with her. But this new part… this slower, more accepting part… he thought he might be able to work with that.

“I can feel it now,” he said. “I couldn’t before because I had nothing to compare it to. These last few weeks have been intense. I met someone—well, I’ve known them a long time but never really _known_ them—and they’ve made me see the world a little differently. When I saw you before, I was still stuck in survival mode, I think. But that doesn’t allow for compassion.” He took a breath. “I had to learn compassion with... with this man. It feels different now. I’ve spent so long trying to convince them that change is possible that I think I accidentally convinced myself along the way.”

“I can certainly hear you considering _yourself_ with more compassion,” she said gently. “Even while we’ve been apart, you’ve been changing the way you think about yourself, the way you treat yourself. I can hear a gentleness there—even love.”

Merlin, wasn’t that pathetic. He’d fallen in love with Potter, and on the way he’d learned to love himself.

The harsh, urgent side of him piped up, pointing out that by doing so, he had lost Potter. Was it worth it? Was he a better trade than the Boy Who Lived?

Tears pricked his eyes, and when he looked up to meet Eleanor’s he saw a depth of empathy that he’d never found anywhere else. He took a deep breath and began to tell the full story.

By the time their session ended, the sun had long since set, and Draco felt lighter.

In the quiet of his apartment that night, he felt a lingering sadness at the thought of Potter all alone across the sea. He hoped Potter chose to listen to him, to seek help, but he also knew that it could take years. It had taken Draco himself this long to be ready, willing, and able, and he’d started with a desperate need to feel anything different to how he always felt. It hadn’t been enough, and he wasn’t sure that Potter even had that.

So he resigned himself to the knowledge that, for now, all he could do was give Potter space. He’d wait a few days and then check in with Blaise. It killed him to leave Potter alone so long, but he was in good hands—better hands than Draco had proven to be.

As he fell asleep, his thoughts shifted into something new. The urgent voice faded and the gentle, compassionate one took over. It assured him that what he’d had with Potter wasn’t a trade. There wasn’t a finite amount of love, and he wasn’t some consolation prize compared to the Boy Who Lived. They had built love between them in whatever messy, stilted way that they could. The only thing that remained to be seen was where they allowed that love to go—to themselves, to each other, or to everywhere it was welcome.

He didn’t know if he’d ever have anything more with Potter than the few weeks of graceless connection they’d shared. He didn’t know if Potter would choose to heal or if he’d just keep going as he was until it ground him into the dirt. He couldn’t plan for this sort of future, just as he hadn’t been able to plan for a life spent with the Dark Lord living in his house.

But there was a difference between just barely getting by from day to day and choosing to accept what he could not control. Draco was ready to do that now. The urgent voice was fading; he was shifting from survival to something new. He would do what he could for Potter and accept what he couldn’t.

And whether he ended up with Potter’s love or not, Draco was learning to love himself. Whatever else happened, that was enough.

*

As the days went by, Draco established a sort of routine. Twice a week, he met with Eleanor. They took things slowly, working within the boundaries that Draco set. It was different to the therapy sessions he’d been to before. At that time in his life, he’d been working just to cope, just to get through each day without falling apart. He recalled times where he’d fallen to the ground, clutching in on himself, because a session had been cancelled and he didn’t know what he was going to do, how he was going to get by.

Those times were gone now. He trusted more easily, could interact with his emotions more freely. In some ways, he needed Eleanor less—and by needing her less, he was able to heal more, heal deeper than before.

“Therapy can take years,” Eleanor said when he expressed this to her. “And our relationship will change over time. We try to stay vague about this at the start. Can you imagine how you would have felt in those early days, if I’d told you there would be years of this?”

He remembered those times huddled on his living room floor, crying because he had never felt emptier or more alone.

He shuddered. “Yes.”

“But it’s different now, isn’t it?”

“When I started this,” Draco said slowly. “I thought I knew what needed to be fixed, and once it was fixed, I’d be fine. But I now feel like it’s changing who I am. I can deal with those memories now. I don’t feel so haunted. But I keep coming here.” He laughed. “I _want_ to keep coming, because now we’re reaching all these things inside that I never knew needed to be reached, to be held.”

Eleanor grinned and shook her bubblegum pink hair back from her face. “How do you feel now about the idea that therapy might take years?”

Draco laughed. “I don’t know that I want it to end.”

The times when he wasn’t in therapy, Draco worked from his apartment. He conducted meetings via Floo call, arranged paperwork via owl, and started to enjoy his time alone. He’d never much liked being alone. The silence would build in his ears until he started to hear things and he had to run, to escape. But it was different now. He could play whatever music he wanted, whenever he felt like it. He ate in fine restaurants, enjoying the atmosphere just as much as the food. There was no need to pretend, no need to put on a mask just to get by in simple interactions.

As much as it hurt, he realised how much of a mask he had been wearing with his friends. It was only on those nights with Potter—ironically, when they had been planning complex deception—that he had been able to stop _constantly trying_ to be something he wasn’t. They had been simple nights. In their mutual deception, they had entered a space where their true selves could come forth. They’d accepted each other’s flaws, admired hidden strengths, and learned to know each other in ways that Draco was only just beginning to know himself.

When he noticed things like that, he wrote them down, compiling them in collections of letters to Potter that he never sent. Sometimes he read them out to Eleanor, or to an empty chair between the two of them, allowing his relationship with Potter space to breathe and grow in an environment where no one got hurt.

“Why didn’t you stop me?” he asked Pansy one night when her head was bobbing in the fire.

He didn’t really mean it. It hadn’t been her responsibility to stop him, and he wouldn’t have stopped even if she’d tried.

“Who am I to make that call?” she answered, gazing at him with an empathy that made him uncomfortable.

He turned away, staring at the tears in the wallpaper, the way the shadows elongated down the walls as the sun dipped below the horizon.

“I know,” he said quietly.

“I don’t think you do, Draco,” Pansy insisted. “You think that you did something stupid, or wrong, and that you should have known better. But that’s not the case. Things _went_ wrong, and there were times when you could have made a better decision, but you did all you could with the information that was available to you.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

Pansy sighed. “It’s never that easy, not when it matters. Did you try to do what you thought was right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you try to look after both Potter and yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Did you acknowledge when things were going wrong and do your best to right them, to the best of your ability?”

“Yes—Pansy what are you doing? And how do you know all this anyway? I’ve hardly told you anything about it.”

“Blaise,” she said simply. “And Draco, I’m answering your question. This is why I didn’t stop you—because I trust you. It’s your life to live, not mine, and who’s to say my decisions are worth anything? You did what you could, what you thought best. I worry about you. I care about you. But I’m not going to live your life for you.”

Draco nodded, forcing himself to listen to the words instead of drifting away where he didn’t have to acknowledge them.

“One thing I don’t understand,” he said slowly, “is why you even acceded the bet in the first place? It was clear we weren’t in a healthy or mature relationship at all, even if it was at least obvious we were fucking.”

Pansy bit her lip. “I know,” she admitted. “I let you win because I could see that, whatever else it was, it was real.” She ran her hands through her hair in frustration. “I wish I’d never made that stupid bet, at least not with that wording. Who are any of us to judge your relationship, Draco? We don’t know what you’re going through. I guess I hoped that by bringing it out into the light, it might… I don’t know… encourage you to make it into something healthy? I’ll admit that doesn’t make much sense. I just didn’t want you to keep going for the sake of the bet. You were trying to fake a relationship for the sake of people who weren’t even involved in it; that should have been a red flag right from the start. Relationships are deeply personal, but this one was all about trying to fit some arbitrary mold made by everyone else. I’m willing to bet you hadn’t even thought about what a relationship might look like to each of you, which means that even if it became real—even _when_ it became real—its foundations were all wrong. I just wanted to fix that.”

Draco met her eyes then, and for once the empathy didn’t overwhelm him. He stopped pushing it away and let it fill him instead. He opened his mouth to address everything she’d said, but he couldn’t find the words, couldn’t figure out how to express the depth of emotion he was feeling for her right that second. In the end, all he said was, “Thank you, Pansy.”

She smiled at him. “You’re welcome, knucklehead.”

The days passed by, and for the most part, things were different. Nice, soothing, _healing_ , but different. He began to miss Pansy and Blaise more than their brief Floo calls allowed. He longed for news of Potter, but even though Granger wrote him weekly with updates, it was clear that nothing much had changed.

_Does he ask about me?_ Draco had written one night after far too much wine. The parchment was blotched and torn where he’d tried to grab it back from the owl after it had taken flight.

_I’m sorry, Draco_ , had been the only response.

He’d shoved it aside and carried on. Potter was safe, surrounded by friends who finally understood the severity of his condition. Had Draco been welcome back home, he would have Apparated that second. It was no great hardship to travel to France for his own therapy sessions, and he longed more than anything to be by Potter’s side as he took those steps toward hope. But Potter didn’t want him there, and Draco’s presence would hurt more than it would help—a visual reminder of the seething emotions and poor coping skills that ruled Potter’s mind.

So, months later, when Draco arrived home one night and found a letter waiting for him in a familiar hand, his heart skipped a beat. 

He stared at the letter for a long time before he opened it. His hands shook a little and it took him several attempts just to break the seal.

_Malfoy,_

Not off to a good start. He closed his eyes for a second and then forced himself to keep reading.

_Malfoy,_

_I don’t know how you’re feeling right now, and I’d completely understand if you wanted to just tear this whole thing up. I hope you read it to the end, though. I think it will be worth it._

_After I left the hospital, I was really angry at you. I’m still not sure why. I think it was because I’d managed to get myself into a headspace where I could still ignore what I was going through, even with everything that had just happened. But then you came along. And you were so… right. Everything you said was right, and it was said in such a calm, gentle way that I couldn’t fucking stand it. You gave me nothing to get mad at, nothing to attack, and I was furious with you for it._

_It was like, with you standing there, being so calm and understanding and gentle, it had to mean that I really was a mess. Does that make sense? I really was a freak, even if you didn’t think so. I don’t know. I’m not making sense._

_My point is that I was mad at you, and then suddenly I wasn’t. After about a week, I was just tired. I went looking for you and that’s when I found out you’d gone. So… then I got mad at you all over again._

_For some reason, though, I kept your list. And oddly enough, I think it was the fact that you disappeared that finally made me look at it properly. Blaise told me you’d gone back to one of your old therapists. I made him promise he wouldn’t tell anyone I was asking, by the way. If you’re wondering why you never heard. I… er… sort of… hounded him a lot. He’s a really good guy. He probably deserves a fruit basket or something at the very least._

_Anyway, when week after week went by and you hadn’t come back, and Blaise kept telling me that you were seeing that therapist two times a week (seriously, two times a week?!) I think that was what did it. I needed to try, not because I thought it would work, but because there was no part in me—not one small part—that understood how or why you could be so committed to this. I wanted to try it, just so that I could show you that it didn’t work. _

_Spite’s always been a great motivator for us, hasn’t it? It got us to date, even if it was fake, and it finally got me to see a therapist._

_She’s great, Draco. She’s really, really great. I tried the first therapist you first suggested, and she referred me onto someone else. It’s someone you don’t know, actually, since apparently our lives are a bit too entwined for it to be fair on me to be treated by someone who treated you. Is it weird that it was that detail that suddenly made this all seem serious? Like, maybe all those things I’d dismissed as just stuff that happened were really… I don’t know. They were actually big. Anyway. It’s going slowly, but there are already things that I can see changing in my day to day life. I wasn’t coping, and you were the only one who really saw that._

_They talk a lot about masks in trauma therapy—did you know that? About the masks we wear to hide who we are, to conceal our authentic self from the world. It made me think about a few things. I never really wore a mask with you. Well, insomuch as I can avoid wearing a mask at all. I still don’t really get all that stuff, to be honest. I’m sure I will in time, but for now I’m just rolling with it._

_I never really wore a mask with you, and it got me thinking: you can’t fake a relationship. Okay, we put on an act in public, made people think there were things happening that weren’t, but that’s only superficial stuff. All those conversations we had. All those plans we made, working together. The way your skin felt beneath my lips and how much I loved it when you moved in me. Those were real. They were all real, even if our communication was fucking terrible._

_This isn’t the kind of letter where I beg you to come back to me. It’s not the kind of letter where I want you to feel so guilty and overcome with emotion that you come hurtling back across the sea and we can pick up where we left off. I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do, Draco. But I’m beginning to see where we went wrong, where we hurt each other._

_I’m not asking for all that stuff back again; I don’t think either of us are ready for that yet. But if you want to—if it means as much to you as it does to me—I’d like to have a go at the things we never had. Like talking. Really, properly talking._

_I’ll leave it at that, though I’m sure I could fill like eight more pages about this. I don’t think that’s fair to you, though. Letters are pretty one-sided, and I’ve had enough of living in my own head. Relationships are a two-way street. Whether we realised it at the time or not, we already have a relationship, Draco; I’d like to find out what that relationship is._

_Harry_

Draco stared at the letter for a long, long time. The string bag of vegetables on his arm grew heavy, and he dropped it to the ground before sinking slowly down beside it. Potter had done it. He’d really done it.

He glanced down at the bag by his feet. His planner was at the bottom, filled with pages and pages of scribble about past therapy sessions and upcoming dates. He had three sessions booked; he could make all of them with a pre-arranged Portkey.

It would take him less than three hours to pack up everything he owned here in France and return to England. Less than three hours to turn everything around and take that first, terrifying step into the unknown—acknowledging that there was something there between him and Potter. Acknowledging that it was worth pursuing. Knowing that their individual sanities and health were just as important.

It should have taken him less than three hours; he did it in one.


	5. Chapter 5

Summer was fading, the green of the leaves changing to a striking orange. Draco let his hands trail along the wood of the park bench, stretching his arms out along the back of it as he sat and waited for Potter to show. There was a family of ducks waddling across the grass in front of him, intent on their foraging. Every now and then one of the ducklings would escape and go tearing toward the water, wings outstretched for balance as it stumbled and tripped its way along the lawn.

He’d only been back in England for three days, and in that time he’d already been accosted by Pansy and Blaise on no less than four occasions. Pansy had been easily mollified with the boxes of jewelry, but Blaise had been harder to deter. He’d popped around every morning since Draco had arrived, bringing with him a box of pastries and strong coffee which he traded for Draco’s vulnerability. At least insomuch as Draco was prepared to give it.

Over their breakfasts, he managed to find a way to thank Blaise for everything he’d done—not just for himself, but for Potter too. He still didn’t know how to truly show his gratitude, but his words were enough for now—particularly as it was the first time he’d ever seen Blaise’s dark skin flushed with pleased embarrassment.

He’d written exactly one letter to Potter and received one in response. He’d asked Potter to meet him at the lake on Saturday, and Potter had said yes.

Draco’s legs jiggled with nerves, and his grip on the park bench was getting tighter and tighter with each passing minute. Potter was late. His mind began to whir with old insecurities, old fears, but he was stronger now, better equipped to handle them. Not that he had ever been weak—that was one of the first things Eleanor had made him understand. He hoped Potter understood it about himself too.

The sound of a foot scuffing across the path came from behind the bench and startled him. When he turned to see piercing green eyes staring back at him, for a single moment, he froze in fear. But then everything else faded away and he remembered he could do this. It was only Potter.

He stood and closed the distance between them, shoving his hands awkwardly into his pockets. He noticed Potter did the same.

“How are you?” Potter asked, a hint of breathlessness in his voice.

“Well,” Draco said. “You?”

Potter laughed. “All right, considering.”

Wordlessly they fell into step beside each other, joining the rest of the people who were going for walks or runs around the lake. The little ducklings waddled along the path in front of them, and the two of them slowed down until their pace was more of an amble, allowing the ducks to race around their feet. Even in the chill of autumn, the sun was warm against their necks. It made Draco realise that he couldn’t recall a time from their recent relationship when he could actually remember the world around them. He’d been so utterly absorbed in the slow, downward pull of it all that he’d let himself get lost along the way.

“We were a bit stupid, weren’t we?” he said suddenly.

He felt Potter relax beside him, like he’d been waiting for a different sort of acknowledgement altogether.

“Me more than you,” he admitted.

“I don’t know about that. I had reservations from the start and I still went ahead with it.” He gave a wry smile. “Can’t blame you for being an idiot; we’ve known that for years.”

“Oi.” Potter nudged him lightly, an affectionate smile on his face.

They fell into a comfortable silence, shoulders brushing against each other occasionally but for the most part they were separate, enjoying the company but lost in their own worlds.

“I didn’t realise it was so bad,” Potter said abruptly.

Draco looked up at him. “That’s usually how it goes,” he admitted. “The fall is so gradual it’s impossible to notice until after.”

“No.” Potter shook his head. “I mean the stuff from the war, yeah sure, that built up like you say. But the rest of it… I didn’t know what was underneath because I’ve never lived without it. I thought that was just _me_. Does that make sense?”

“It makes perfect sense.”

Potter let out a breath of relief. “I haven’t told Ron and Hermione yet. I mean, they know I’m seeing someone, but they don’t know the extent of it. I’d be happy for them to know, but I wish I didn’t have to tell them. I wish they could just pluck it from my brain and just _know_ instead of me having to explain it.”

Draco frowned. “Why don’t you just do that then?”

Potter blinked. “Huh?”

“Use a Pensieve.”

The incredulity on Potter’s face made Draco laugh.

“I’m sorry, how long have you been a wizard again?”

“I forgot,” Potter said sheepishly. “But…” He frowned. “Now that I’m imagining that, imagining them _seeing_.” His face grew tight and walled-off. “Maybe I don’t want them to know quite as much as I thought.”

Draco nodded, thinking of dark corridors and lonely nightmares. “It’s like that.”

“It is.” Potter paused. “Do you remember when I said dying was my biggest accomplishment?”

Draco froze. “Yes?”

“She made me reframe it, in therapy.” The words came out in a rush, like he’d been holding them back and just couldn’t keep them in anymore. “She got me to think about that night from my own perspective, rather than from everyone else’s, and she’s right. I don’t think dying and defeating him was my biggest accomplishment. I mean, I’m glad I did that, of course. But… to me… I just. I’m glad I lived. I came back.” He took a deep breath. “That feels big, to me. Bigger than the rest.”

Draco stared at him. If someone had asked him to name all the feelings that were swirling around in his gut right that second, he wouldn’t have been able to. He’d never felt this surge of pride for someone else before—pride and respect and so much warmth it was disgusting.

“It is big,” he agreed, trying to convey some measure of his emotions into those three small words.

From the expression on Potter’s face, he thought he might have succeeded.

After a moment of silence, Potter gave himself a little shake. “Did you listen to the match last week?”

Draco paused for a beat in surprise before falling into the topic with enthusiasm. By the time they’d finished talking, they’d made it around the lake three times. Draco checked his watch. It was lunch time, but he didn’t want to push this. It was still so new.

“I’m going to have lunch now,” he said carefully.

Potter nodded, eyes a little wider than usual. Draco waited.

“I’d love to join you… sometime,” Potter said slowly. “But maybe not now? I’m feeling a little—” He broke off and shuddered. “This has been great. I really enjoyed myself, but I think I need a break now. I think I need to be alone.”

Draco smiled at him. It felt like a weight disappearing from his face, like a mask being taken off. “I understand.” He took a breath, tasting the crisp autumn air. “I’m glad you told me.”

There was a pause right before the moment that Potter smiled back at him. It made the moment all the more real, all the more glorious. Draco sank into that moment.

“I’ll owl you,” Potter said, and then he was gone.

The next few weeks were like a dream, but it wasn’t the murky, uncomfortable dream he’d lived for so long, the one where the only thing he could do was wait for it all to shatter apart.

This dream didn’t burst. Draco still felt like he was floating, drifting through the air in some kind of perfect haze, but his world was no longer narrowed to one man and all the problems that lay there with him. It expanded from Potter outwards and drew the whole world in.

At night, they sent each other letters. It started when Draco woke up after a restless night on the couch to a ball of paper hitting him straight in the forehead. He woke with a start, barely having been asleep to begin with, and dived for his wand. By the time he realised it was just a piece of paper, he felt a bit ridiculous but thankful no one was around to see.

He unrolled the paper slowly, not entirely sure what to expect.

_Malfoy. You awake? -Harry_

He stared at the words for a stupidly long time before hurrying to find a quill.

_Potter, why are you assaulting me with stationery?_

The fire had lowered to a dull glow, more heat than light at this time of the night. It flickered across the living room, sending long shadows dancing around him. After a moment, Draco screwed up the paper, sprinkled it with Floo powder, and lobbed it into the fire while muttering Potter’s address.

A few minutes later, there was a reply.

_I can’t sleep. Didn’t want to wake you with an owl, but I wanted the company._

Draco settled back against the couch and scrawled on the back of it.

_Do you want me to come over? Or Floo call?_

The fire flared green as the parchment disappeared. After a moment, it flared again and a new ball of parchment shot out onto the heart. Draco kneeled forward to grab it.

_Or we could continue like this?_

Draco felt a flutter in his chest that he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager, spending far too much time fantasizing about stupid boys paying him attention. It was like a secret note passed over in class, a present left under the Christmas tree by a secret admirer. He grabbed a cushion from the couch and perched on it so that he could be close to the fire. He scrawled another note and threw it into the fire.

_Did I ever tell you about the time I set Blaise’s couch on fire?_

They passed notes back and forth for hours, and Draco couldn’t recall a time when he’d smiled quite so much. Giddy like a teenager, he threw a final note into the fire, telling Potter for the eighth time that he really had to go to sleep.

He waited a few minutes and then decided Potter must have fallen asleep in front of the hearth. The image soothed him, warming him all the way to his toes despite the dying fire. He stood up, stretching his hands above his head and sighing at the delicious cracks his body made.

A large piece of parchment shot through the fire and hit him in the foot.

_Thank you for staying up with me, Draco. Sometimes I can’t sleep. I’m sure you’ve guessed that, and that you know exactly what sort of things might keep me awake at night. Ron and Hermione always make it into a big deal, but this was perfect. Just knowing that you know—no, that you understand—makes it easier to accept the distraction for what it is. It doesn’t feel false from you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that. Sleep well. _

Draco read and reread the message so many times, he was certain that Potter was asleep by the time he finally got a new piece of parchment ready.

_I’ve never had someone else who understood it either. But our relationship means more to me than that… You’re not just someone who gets my past in a way no one else does. I think you need to understand the past to understand the future, but being with you… For once, it’s the future I’m interested in._

When he fell asleep that night, for the first time in a long time, he didn’t dream.

*

Draco’s mouth fell open as he stared up at the enormous house. He was positive it was held up with magic alone; there was simply no way a building could lean like that on its own. Flocks of tiny birds swooped around the uppermost tower, building nests in the alcoves from the bits and pieces they’d salvaged from the front yard. Even from this distance, Draco was sure he could see a nest made out of a Gryffindor scarf.

He closed his eyes and told himself firmly that he was making it up. Then, he took a deep breath and marched down the drive to the Burrow.

Weasley opened the door before he’d even had the chance to knock.

“Malfoy,” he said with a grin. “I thought I saw you looking like a right pillock in the middle of my driveway. What are you doing here?”

Draco blustered indignantly. “I was _not_ looking like a right pillock, I was— Did you know you have a flock of _birds_ living in your roof?”

Weasley looked puzzled. “Well, yeah. Where else are they going to live?”

Draco gaped at him. “A tree? A forest? Not your house?”

Weasley snorted. “Our house is much warmer than a bloody forest. Come upstairs, I’ll point out the ones Ginny’s given names to. There’s a really annoying one with the loudest squawk you’ve ever heard—she called that one Umbridge.”

The door opened wider, revealing a ramshackle kitchen and dining room with dishes floating everywhere.

“Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess,” Weasley said brightly. “Mum and dad are out at the theatre, so we’ve all popped in to give the house a bit of a blitz for them.”

Granger stuck her head around the corner and waved at him. “I thought I heard your voice, Draco! Did Harry tell you we were here?”

“No,” Draco said, giving his head a little shake and stepping into the house. “I Floo-called your house and Ginevra answered, looking a bit frantic. She said I’d find you here.”

Weasley smacked his forehead. “Right. I forgot I sent her there for the tea towels. I left them at the office. Shit.” He hurried away towards the fire and stuck his head in, yelling for his sister.

“We bought them new dishcloths and tea towels,” Granger explained, wiping her sudsy hands on her jeans and walking over to Draco. “But Ron couldn’t remember where he’d left them.”

Almost none of this made sense to Draco, on any level, but he soldiered on.

“I can come back another time?” he suggested, unable to keep from staring around at the chaos of the room.

The dishes, now that he was paying attention, floated in an orderly line, one by one, in front of the sink. This allowed the mops enough space to go wild—and that was the only word Draco could think to explain what they were doing. Each mop had about one third of its original strands to offer, and they made up for it by approaching the task with five times the necessary vigor.

Draco ducked just as a fifth mop came hurtling down from stairs, narrowly missing giving him a concussion. It launched itself at the brickwork around the range hood.

Granger winced. “It must have finished the landing,” she said apologetically. “I think they’re excited we’re using them all. Molly has a favourite that she normally relies on.” She nodded her head towards a sad looking mop that was trailing along behind the others.

“It doesn’t seem happy to share,” Draco said incredulously. “Are all their cleaning products like this? I’ve never seen it before in my life.”

Granger laughed. “This family has a tendency to breathe life into things.” Draco didn’t miss the gentle reverence to her tone.

“I can see that.”

“Anyway,” she shook her head. “Is everything all right? Did you need our help?”

“Not exactly,” Draco said, feeling a little foolish in light of what he was undoubtedly intruding on. “I guess I just wanted to apologise.”

Granger blinked in surprise. “Apologise? Whatever for?”

“Don’t question it, ‘Mione!” Weasley insisted as he pulled his head back out of the fire. He had a large lump of soot on his nose. “I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life. Now, don’t tell me, I choose to believe you’re apologising for the slugs, the badges, and the Inquisitorial bullshit. In that order.”

“Technically the slugs were your fault,” Draco pointed out, lips twitching despite his attempt to remain serious.

“Don’t burst my bubble, Malfoy.” Weasley closed his eyes, a blissful expression overtaking his face.

Granger jabbed him hard in the ribs with her elbow. “Ron, stop it. Draco’s serious. What are you apologising for? I’m positive it isn’t necessary.”

Draco lifted one shoulder as elegantly as he could manage when he was also fighting for space with three sponges.

“I doubted you,” he said simply. “I judged you for how little you helped Potter. I was too harsh on you, and whether you were aware of it or not, it’s not something I’m proud of. I want to make it clear that you did everything you could for him, and it’s no one’s fault that things became as severe as they did.”

Granger and Weasley’s eyes widened, and for several moments there was silence.

“Umm, thanks, Malfoy,” Weasley said finally, shooting a glance at Granger before looking Draco in the eye. “You don’t have to apologise, though. We get why you were ticked off about it.”

“We didn’t do enough,” Granger said, a sad edge to her words. “I know what you’re saying—that it’s understandable and everything, but I still wish we’d done more.”

“You didn’t know,” Draco said. “You _couldn’t_ know. It wasn’t your area of expertise, and you’d known him for so long that there was no reason for you to think to look deeper. It’s not your fault.”

Granger rested her hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “We know that, Draco. Both things are true, do you get what I’m saying? I’m not consumed by guilt—I accept the factors that led us here and forgive myself for what I couldn’t do—but I also regret how things played out. I wish I’d done more.”

Weasley caught sight of his reflection in a newly scrubbed pan and began rubbing furiously at the soot on his nose. “Exactly,” he said, his voice slightly muffled as he pulled his sleeve across his face. “If you let guilt rule you, you’ll never move forward. I learned that after Fred.” He cleared the spot and turned back to face Draco.

A shiver of ice ran down Draco’s back; he’d forgotten about Fred.

“And if you don’t move forward, then what the hell was the point of the guilt?” Weasley continued, shrugging. “So it’s important to learn from the mistakes you make. We fucked up. If I had my time again, I’d do things differently. And if something like this _does_ happen again, we’ll recognise the signs now.”

“Right,” Draco breathed, a little embarrassed to hear the awe in his voice.

“Can—” Granger began abruptly, her expression turning sheepish. “Can I hug you?”

Draco gaped at her. He started to nod, trying to think how to tactfully ask her if she was drunk, but before he’d thought of the words she’d pounced on him, enveloping him into a giant hug. After a second, he relaxed, bringing his arms around her waist and resting his forehead against the warm sweetness of her hair.

“What’s this for?” he asked.

“You’re good for him,” she said, giving him a final squeeze before breaking away. “Thanks for seeing what we didn’t.”

Draco nodded, his throat swelling with an unnamed emotion. He took a breath, closing his eyes for a second to regain control.

“Can I help here, at all?”

Weasley’s eyes widened. “I thought you’d never ask.” He spun Draco around by the shoulders and shoved him towards the stairs. “Right, third door on your left—there’s a supply closet. In that closet you’re going to find a wooden chest. It _will_ bite you, but you just have to be firm with it. Don’t stand for any of its crap—”

*

Later that night, he met Potter by the corner of a small Wizarding district he’d never been to, on account of it being far from any area his parents had allowed him to go. He was pleasantly surprised to find the area bustling with activity, full of laughter.

Potter led him from stall to stall down the market strip, and together they composed a basket of fruit and flowers so large that by the end they needed magic to hold it up. Laughing, they’d cast a Lightening Charm and attached it to a bewildered owl, sending it to Blaise’s house.

As they’d watched the owl disappear, Draco had thought to ask how the Security Program had gone.

“Not well,” Potter admitted. “They keep blocking it at every turn. I’m starting to wonder if it was a bit naïve.”

Draco bristled, but he forced himself to let it go. “There are always flaws if you know where to look,” he admitted. “Did you want to readdress it? I can clear time in my schedule.”

Potter shook his head. “Not yet.” He looked a little sheepish. “I’m thinking about something else at the moment. Did you know that the Ministry hears word about a potential Muggle-born within two years of birth?”

Draco blinked at the subject change. “No. But I thought they only sent the letters right before Hogwarts?”

“They like to wait for confirmation,” Potter said darkly. “But that doesn’t help the Muggle family at all. Do you know what Muggles think of magic that can’t be explained?”

Draco levelled him with a look. “Yes, Potter. I’m perhaps a little aware of the horror stories regarding Muggles, segregation, and magic.”

Potter had the grace to look apologetic. “Right. Of course. Forgot how you were raised for a second there. Well, yeah, they tend to jump to demonic possession and other things. But there are only rare cases that a flagged Muggle-born turns out not to possess magic, and even then it’s quite likely they have a small strain of it even if it isn’t enough for Hogwarts.”

“What are you suggesting?” Draco was curious despite himself.

Potter shrugged. “I’m just wondering if we can do something to help. Make sure fewer kids grow up with parents who are afraid of them, when there’s absolutely no reason for them to be scared.” He cleared his throat. “Make sure fewer kids grow up thinking they’re freaks.”

Warmth bloomed in Draco’s chest, though it was tinged with sadness.

“I think it’s a great idea.”

Potter smiled at him, radiant like the sun. “You think so?”

“I do.”

*

Weeks turned into months, and they slowly built up the friendship they’d never allowed themselves to have. At first, Draco had thought he didn’t need to. He already knew he was in love with Potter—what else was he supposed to learn from this exercise? It was for Potter, really. For Potter to learn how to reach out to others, how to make meaningful connections. For Potter to learn if he could love Draco.

But slowly, he found himself changing too. He kept seeing Eleanor, kept making progress on himself. They began sharing those moments—he and Potter. Not much, only bits and pieces. The things that made their heart sing, the pieces of themselves that they had rediscovered and wanted to share.

It was through knowing and sharing himself that he finally found himself falling properly, completely, inevitably into love.

Still, he didn’t know what Potter thought, didn’t want to rush anything when it was still so new and meant so much.

So he didn’t expect anything when Potter asked him to meet at the little coffee shop on the corner; after all, they went there several times a week. He didn’t think anything of it when Potter was already there, waiting, a bag of pastries in his hand and two steaming ceramic mugs of coffee balanced on the edge of the counter. Potter knew his order; they’d been coming here for months.

It was why, when Potter leaned close enough that no one else could hear and whispered a question into his ear, it took him several seconds to realise what he’d said.

“Sorry?” he asked again, blinking in confusion.

“I said, can I kiss you?” Potter’s eyes were warm, the little crow’s feet in the corner crinkling with genuine affection.

There were no masks here.

Draco grinned. “Of course.”

Potter leaned in. His lips were a bright spot of heat in the chilled spring air, bringing with them the taste of sugar and rich coffee. Draco sighed and pressed in close, bringing a hand up to cup the back of Potter’s neck and hold him there. Their noses were cold, two circles of ice tucked against warm cheeks.

Draco drew back and grinned. “What was that about?”

Potter lifted his eyebrows and shrugged, unable to wipe the hint of a smile from his face. “Just felt like it.”

“You’re in a strange mood.”

Potter laughed. “Maybe. I’m thinking of quitting my job.”

Draco’s eyes widened in shock. “Really?”

“Yeah. It’s…” He trailed off. “It’s not healthy for me.”

“What about the Security Project?”

He was hesitant to ask. If anything was going to make Potter revert into a swirl of horrible emotions, it was the reminder of everything he had wanted to achieve.

It was a mark of just how far he’d come that instead of shutting down, Potter’s face twisted into sadness.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice full of regret. “I’ll have to turn it over to Robards and find some other way to make a difference. I can’t stay there.”

“You can’t,” Draco agreed, his mind already whirring with ways he could pick up the project and keep it running. “I’m glad you’re leaving.”

“Do you have any plans tonight?”

He looked up to see a faint flush of pink rising on Potter’s cheeks. A slow sense of warmth began to spread through him, starting from his chest and blooming outward all the way to the tips of his fingers. He shook his head.

“I know a great little library not far from here,” Potter said, pretending to be fascinated by something in the distance. “It has an excellent restaurant tucked at the back. I hear their soup is delicious.”

Draco’s smile burst across his face. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Potter grinned, finally turning to him and sliding his fingers into Draco’s. “I thought it would make a nice first date.”

“I think that sounds excellent.”

Draco opened the bag of pastries, selected the largest and took a bite. He let the sweetness pool on his tongue, filling his mouth with the delicious mix of chocolate and pastry. It was rich and light and real.


	6. Epilogue

The sound of excited children screaming surrounded them, piercing Draco’s ear drums. He climbed over the waist-high barrier separating the Quidditch pitch from the stands and crossed the field to where Harry was waiting.

“Are you sure these hoops are low enough?” Draco asked, looking at the highest hoop which stood at eye level.

His face twisted into apprehension, but then Harry leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead, and the tension faded away.

“There are cushioning charms all around the hoops,” Harry explained, draping an arm of Draco’s shoulder and pulling him in close. “Two metres is the maximum height these brooms go to, so you can be utterly certain these kids are going to fly that high anyway.”

Draco glanced over at the crowd of eight years olds huddling excitedly in the centre. One of them had got their hands on a spare broom and was already trying to levitate it. His red curls whipped around his face in the wind, and his cheeks almost matched his hair with the exertion of how hard he was trying to make the broom jump into his hands.

“You have a point,” he said drily.

“Did you want to stay for the kick off?” Harry asked, smiling up at him. “Or is this just a quick visit?”

Warmth bloomed in Draco’s chest, curling slowly through his whole body. “I can stay.”

Harry led the way over to the centre of the pitch. The grass crunched beneath their feet; it smelled as if it had been recently cut, and the scent mingled with the rich scent of hot food that carried over from where the mums and dads were hovering in the stands.

As they drew near, Draco fell back to the edge of the crowd, smiling at the few children that looked his way. Most of them only had eyes for Harry—bright, eager, reverent eyes.

“Right!” Harry shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around at the small crowd of children at his feet. There were around fifteen of them.

His entire demeanor had changed. His voice was gentle, filled with laughter even when he wasn’t joking. The children gazed up at him, and despite a few giggles and whispered conversations, they listened. Pretty impressive considering the ages ranged from around six to ten.

“We’ve got a few new faces today,” Harry said, smiling down at them all. “So we might start back at the basics. Who here has ridden a kid’s broom before?”

Several hands shot in the air while one or two voices piped up that they’d ridden a _real_ broom.

“Who can tell me the first safety rule on a broom?”

“Tuck your feet in!” one kid yelled.

“Don’t aim for anyone!” added another.

“Don’t whack anyone with it!”

Draco watched Harry fight back a laugh.

“An excellent point, though I’m a little worried it was even an option. Yes, you’re right—the first rule is not to fly straight at anyone. The charms are strong and the ground is soft, but it’s not a good habit to get into. What you want to do is fly _alongside_ someone. Always try to come up next to them. We’ll have a few accidents—we always do—but that’s all right because what are we doing?”

“Trying our best!” The kids yelled back.

Draco could spot the new faces in the crowd. They were mostly quiet, trying to follow along with the answers a beat behind everyone else. One little girl looked like she was about to be sick.

The crowd surged to their feet, and Draco took his cue to go back and join the parents waiting on the side lines. One mother was standing on her own, her hands clutched around a steaming cup of coffee, so Draco stood with her.

“First time today?” she asked eagerly the second he’d come to a stop beside her.

Draco shook his head. “I’m with Harry. Just popped over to see how it was all going.”

Her face broke into a smile, though her forehead was still creased with nerves. “Oh that’s lovely. He does such a wonderful job. My friend has been raving about him for weeks, but she couldn’t come today. Her kids have all got the flu and she’s racing around trying to make enough vegetable soup for the lot of them.” She let out a high-pitched laugh and then shut her mouth quickly, as if worried she was too loud.

Draco smiled at her as reassuringly as he could manage. Her shoulders relaxed a little.

“Which one’s yours?” he asked, nodding his head to the crowd that were now standing in a line and practicing the ‘up’ command.

“Emily,” she said, pointing towards the end of the line. “The little blonde one, just there. My name’s Evie.”

It was the girl who had looked sick. She noticed her mum pointing and gave a timid little wave. Draco made sure to wave back.

“She seems a bit nervous,” he said lightly. “She’s never used a kid’s broom?”

“Oh no,” Evie shook her head. “We think she might be a Squib. Her sister showed signs of magic at four, and Emily’s nearly eight.”

“She might be a late bloomer,” Draco suggested.

Evie shot him a grateful smile. “Maybe. We’re just glad something like this exists. At least if the worst happens, she can still go for a fly with her sister.”

Draco tried not to wince at her phrasing. Then he tried not to remember what his younger self would have thought.

“Harry’s working on getting a program going with Hogwarts,” he said casually. “She’d be able to join the Herbology classes as well if she was interested.”

Evie’s eyes widened, an almost painful level of hope taking over her face. “Really?” she breathed. “That would be amazing. I just hope she wouldn’t feel too out of place, you know? It’s hard being different.”

Draco looked over at the group and bit back a smile. “Looks like she’s doing just fine.”

The redheaded boy who had been desperately trying to levitate his broom was eagerly helping Emily with her commands. Squibs tended to vary for how well the brooms responded to verbal commands, and it seemed Emily was one who would have to control it on her own. As he watched, the redheaded boy widened his stance, held his hands out dramatically with Emily’s hands hovering in the air above his, and yelled “UP!” so loudly that they could hear it from the stands.

The broom shot into the air, and at the last second, he pulled his hands away so that Emily could catch it. She giggled, her entire face lighting up with joy.

When Draco looked over at Evie, her whole body had collapsed against the barrier with relief, a huge smile on her face.

Another mum came to stand beside them. “Are your kids on the field today?” she asked, rubbing her hands together to warm them and glancing over at them. “My Ben couldn’t make it today, but he insisted I come along to make sure they hadn’t started the new fixture without him.”

Draco laughed. “Don’t worry, the league doesn’t start until October. They’re just doing practice now.”

She sighed with relief. “Phew. He was so worried he’d miss the first game, but he’s just _so_ sick, he couldn’t even get out of bed.”

“Oh, the flu’s going around at the moment!” Evie said, turning to the other mum and widening her eyes. “So late in the season, too!”

“It’s crazy!” the other agreed.

Draco let their conversation fade out of his awareness as he leant on the barrier and watched Harry teach. Harry was made for this. He had the kids hanging on his every word, and his expression was so light, so carefree, it was like Draco was looking at a different person. The tightness in his jaw that he’d always worn for hours after getting home from work was gone, the lines on his face overtaken by laughter rather than tension.

The moment of true realisation had come two weeks ago, when Harry had sat down at Draco’s kitchen table and launched straight into a story about a Muggle-born child, Stacy, inviting three pure-blood children she’d met at the Junior Quidditch League to her birthday party. The three pure-blood children had been so honored that they were trusted to keep their secret. They’d spent days planning their outfits with Stacy’s help, reminding each other of the written list of words they couldn’t bring up, and basically amping each other up with excitement about this birthday party full of Muggles.

Stacy’s mum had been a little more nervous, confiding to Harry that she was mildly terrified that something would explode with glitter and she wouldn’t be able to think of a believable lie quick enough. But it had gone as smooth as possible. All four children had occasionally broken up into fits of giggles that left the other kids bewildered—particularly when one of the parents had commented on the old-fashioned broom tucked into the corner of the kitchen—but that was it.

All three pure-blood children had loved meeting their new Muggle friends, and now the biggest problem was the flustered parents who were busy trying to work out how to use a telephone so that they could arrange another play date.

Draco had watched Harry tell the story, watched the way his face lit up with pride and triumph and love, and he’d realised suddenly that everything had worked out. He still saw Eleanor, and Harry regularly met with a variety of Mind Healers and rehabilitation specialists, but they had weathered the worst part of the storm and come out flying.

The practice came to an end, and the sea of kids came rushing back to their parents, all talking over each other at once. Draco waited at the side while Harry collected the piles of brooms and shrunk the Quidditch hoops back into the ground, lest any Muggle break through the privacy shield around the oval.

He met Harry at the door to the change rooms, not that the kids were using them today. Those who had Quidditch jerseys had come dressed in them, and Draco had the feeling the parents would be putting up a fight to get them to change back out.

“How did it go?” Draco asked as Harry handed him a pile of shrunken brooms and moved past towards the storage lockers.

“Brilliant!” Harry enthused. “Did you see Arnold? He’s the youngest of the lot and he’s already got the hang of the wordless ‘up’ command. I’ll have to get him to partner up with Emily and see if he can explain the difference in a way that works for her. She might go better wordless than verbal.” He stowed the brooms away and turned back to grab the second pile off Draco.

“Or maybe she’ll go better just picking it up. Who knows. It’s always different when they’re borrowed brooms. She told me she’d seen her mum hiding one away upstairs so she thinks it’s going to be her birthday present.” He started laughing. “She’s a sneaky kid. I think she’ll sort Slytherin if she goes to Hogwarts. Even if she doesn’t, I reckon we’ll find her sneaking across the grounds after hours if she goes to any of the holiday programs. Did I tell you McGonagall approved them? She wants to run a Potions program too.”

Draco leaned back against the lockers and just let Harry’s words wash over him. He couldn’t keep the dopey smile from his face, so he didn’t even try. When Harry finally turned to face him, surprise registered on his face for a moment before it was replaced with heat.

Harry lifted a hand and the door to the change room slammed shut and locked itself.

Draco pretended to look aghast. “There could still be parents out there, listening.”

“They’re too busy trying to justify to their kids why they can’t buy the new Cleansweep Jr,” Harry murmured, crossing the room and drawing Draco close.

“You didn’t,” Draco protested with a laugh, letting his forehead rest against Harry’s.

“What was I meant to do?” Harry grinned. “I had a whole crate of them just _begging_ to be tried out by enthusiastic children. It would have been an insult to the donation if I hadn’t brought them out just in time for Christmas shopping.”

“You’re a menace.” Draco tucked a finger under Harry’s jaw and tilted him up for a kiss.

Their lips curved together, warm and soft. The conversation fell away, replaced by the gentle heat of their languid exploration. Harry shifted his hands beneath Draco’s shirt, running his fingers across bare skin and tugging at his waist band questioningly.

Draco answered by undoing his trousers and shoving them down his thighs, making sure Harry’s were quick to follow. He took them both in hand and began to set a rhythm in slow, measured strokes.

“You know, I had a dream about this once,” Draco said, biting lightly against Harry’s neck.

Harry dropped his head back on a gasp, his fingers entwining in Draco’s hair and pulling almost unconsciously. “Yeah?” 

“Or twice. Maybe several times. At Hogwarts.” Draco could hear the rough desire in his own voice, and, beneath it, he could hear something warmer, something softer. “We’d just had that fight on the Quidditch pitch.”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Harry moaned, thrusting into Draco’s loose fist. “Harder.”

Draco let go of himself to focus the entire of his attention on Harry. As soon as Draco had enclosed around him, Harry groaned and surged forward for a kiss. His hand fell to Draco’s cock and he began pumping him fast.

“The fight after I cheated,” Draco murmured, wishing he’d taken a moment to get rid of both their shirts.

Then, he remembered he was a wizard. He waved a hand absently and their clothing vanished. Harry’s eyes widened in surprise, and then he grinned, turning so that he could shove Draco up against the lockers.

Draco yelped at the sudden cold of the metal, but the sound died—transformed into an embarrassing moan—as Harry dropped to his knees and took Draco into his mouth.

He slid slowly to the base, eyes on Draco the entire time, before retreating backwards and pulling off with a faint _pop_. “Again,” he muttered, voice hoarse, “you’ll have to be more specific.”

Draco laughed and dropped his head back against the lockers. “Shut up, Potter,” he grunted, thrusting forward when Harry closed around him again. “I dreamed we took the argument into the change rooms, and then the showers, and then you were on your knees and I was fucking your mouth. Oddly prophetic, now that I think about it.”

Harry murmured an affirmation around his cock, the sound vibrating against him and making his knees go weak. The lockers rattled behind them in time with Draco’s thrusts, and when he looked down he could see Harry’s spare hand moving fast between his own legs.

It was hotter than his teenage dream. The dream had been fueled by anger and a mutual yearning to prove the other wrong, to fight, to win. This was nothing like that. When Draco fell to his knees it was to bring them both pleasure, years-long feuds forgotten in the face of the other’s offered vulnerability. Draco could get drunk off that sensation.

He looked down just at the moment that Harry’s eyes opened again, looking up and searching Draco’s face. He smirked, his mouth still full of Draco’s cock, and sight of that wicked grin sent Draco soaring over the edge.

He clutched at Harry’s hair, riding out the waves and thrusting as gently as he could manage. Then, Harry pulled away and spat onto the floor, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and smiling up at him. Before he could speak, Draco pulled him upwards and guided him back to the bench behind him. Still warm from the afterglow, he dropped to the ground and settled himself between Harry’s spread thighs.

“Merlin,” Harry breathed, eyes falling closed. “I’m so close, Draco.”

Draco took him in, relishing the taste of sweat and arousal and clean man that filled his mouth. Above him, Harry’s breath came in rough pants, interspersed with Draco’s name in a tone of voice that made him feel like a god.

Within minutes, it was over. Harry stiffened beneath him and just held him there, his hand clasped around the back of Draco’s neck as he groaned something incomprehensible. The sound went straight to Draco’s spent cock, making it twitch with interest. When the moment had passed, Draco pulled away and let his head fall against Harry’s thigh. He smiled against his skin as Harry’s hand traced idle patterns into his hair.

Suddenly, Draco remembered why he’d come here today. He lifted his head and gazed up at Harry, seeing his own languid affection mirrored in his lover’s face.

“Pansy wants a pub night,” he said, standing and retrieving his clothes from where his spell had Vanished them. “She closed a major deal today and wants to celebrate.”

Harry stretched and then leaned back on the bench, propping himself up by the hands. Draco took a moment to admire him in all his naked glory.

“I’m in,” he said, waving his hand so that his clothing flew across the room to his lap. “We should get her something, too.”

“Taken care of,” Draco said. He couldn’t find his boxers, so he reluctantly decided to go commando, buttoning up his trousers carefully. “I’ve bought her a disgustingly expensive bottle of wine to go with a disgustingly expensive bottle of perfume from France.”

“Perfect.” Harry smiled. “Anything I can do? Or have you done everything?”

“Don’t look so surprised.”

Harry slung his shirt over his shoulders and began to button it up slowly. “I’ll just make sure to look pretty, then.”

Draco snorted. “Oh, come on, I had to put in the extra effort to compete with the _designer handbag_ you got her in autumn.”

“It’s not a competition,” Harry said with a soft smile.

“Only if I’m winning.”

Harry stopped dressing and stood up, his shirt still hanging loose and every other inch of him on display. He put his hands around Draco’s waist and pulled him closer so he could rest his forehead against Draco’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Draco stuttered. “For what?”

“You know what.”

Draco let his hands come to rest on Harry’s hips, the silence of the empty change room settling around them. It was comforting, as if he had one foot set in the past while facing inexorably forward to the future.

“Thank you,” he replied, so softly he wasn’t sure Harry heard it.

Harry’s arms tightened around Draco’s waist, and in the stillness of that moment together, Draco knew he had.

They Apparated back to Draco’s to get ready for the pub, taking their time with languid kisses and conversation. By the time they were ready, the light had almost faded. Potter’s eyes glittered in the lamplight, bright with affection and simmering heat.

A noise came from outside the window. Harry glanced through the gap in the curtains, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“I think you have visitors,” he said conversationally.

Draco’s eyes widened. “I thought they’d stopped!” he said, unable to keep the hint of glee from his expression as he hurried over to stand beside Harry. “I thought they must have triggered the spell while I was in France and then given up.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” Harry mused, running a hand idly along Draco’s lower back. “That, or these kids are new.”

Draco hummed in thought. “I don’t recognise them.” A conflicting thought hit him. “Should I be morally opposed to taking pleasure from this?”

“There’s a warning, right before they fire,” Harry explained, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Whether or not they choose to challenge that is entirely their decision.”

“Consider my guilt assuaged.”

The shouting outside grew louder. “Oi, lads, I’ve found a weak spot!”

Draco and Harry leaned closer to the window to watch. Down below, a group of kids were huddled by the fence line with several cartons of eggs in their hands.

“No it’s not! Look, it’s just gonna bounce right back at you!”

“Nah, nah, I’ve got it! Watch this!”

One boy lifted his wand; the eggs rose as one. The wards around the house flickered, shining silver for a single moment, just like a mirror.

“No, don’t do it!” one of them yelled while the others all covered their heads.

“Trust me!” the first boy yelled back.

It was a slow trajectory through the air, the eggs sailing in a beautiful wave towards the space where the wards began. A sound like cracking glass surrounded them, and for one shining moment the boy’s face was alight with triumph.

Then, they were all covered in a mass of yellow. The boy stood there, staring up at the house with a dumbfounded expression.

“You idiot!” the others howled.

“I told you the weak spot was on the other side!”

“No, it’s by the hydrangeas!”

“What the fuck is a hydrangea?”

Draco collapsed against Harry, weak with laughter. “That was better than I’d ever imagined.”

Harry gripped the sill, shaking and trying to regain his breath. “God, I think it’s just encouraged them.”

“I know! This is awful!” Draco wiped happy tears away from his face, unable to look away from the sight of the egg-covered kids.

“Probably should have seen this coming.”

“You mean we should have anticipated kids making stupid decisions?”

Harry pulled him close and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Yep. Did you want to take the wards down?”

“And ruin their fun?” Draco shook his head. “Not yet. Maybe I’ll add a weak spot for them near the hydrangeas.” He frowned. “I don’t think I have any hydrangeas.”

Harry shook his head, still smiling. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

“I wonder if Rita will be spying tonight,” Draco mused, mind racing with scandalous rumors they could spread through the pub, tailored for the reporter’s ears.

He turned away from the window as Harry laughed, warmth suffusing his body at the sight of his partner’s happiness.

“Who knows?”

Harry reached out to adjust Draco’s lapel, and Draco ran a hand through Harry’s hair. They were as ready as they could ever be, and after sharing a final, secret smile, they stepped into the Floo and left to face the outside world together.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Chocolate and Pastry illustrations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15964745) by [anemonen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anemonen/pseuds/anemonen)




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